Sam Hranac

Bankrupt?

2012-01-11T08:37:00.000-08:00

Seriously, Twinkie Boyz? Who goes bankrupt selling whipped lard to Americans? My theory is, they didn’t actually go bankrupt so much as they mass produced all the world will need to consume for the next seventy years, so they closed shop to save money while sales continue. I’m pretty sure they’re still selling the ones they made back in 1974. Preservatives are a marvel.

But bankrupt? I don’t buy it. Not when you’re selling animal fat tubes two to a pack.

Have you ever tried one wrapped in bacon? It is to die for. Actually, I think that’s what happened to Jimmy Hoffa. Bacon/Twinkie induced heart explosion. There wasn’t enough left of him to identify.

Well, if this turns out to ACTUALLY be the end, then Rest In Peace, Twinkies. The coming zombie apocalypse will not be the same without you.

Peace to You

2011-12-21T13:17:00.000-08:00

Reposted from 2009.

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A ship’s compass, a windrose, identifies the source of directions as solar sky paths at four key dates: Spring Equinox, Summer Solstice, Fall Equinox and Winter Solstice. The windrose’s shape is echoed in sundials, stone medicine wheels, ceremonial containers woven from intent and Navajo wedding baskets woven from sumac. People all over the world have captured this pattern in many ways for many reasons.

Stones, stars, the directions, weavings, time – these speak to us out of the past. If you listen the words can be intuited; an alive spiritual communication.

How many times has the wheel turned – the sun aligning with the markings on the windrose and ceremonial containers? When will it end? What gateway experiences will happen along the way? How many times have people gathered for community, warmth and comfort on the longest night of the year? How often are they kept apart?

Blessings to you and yours. May your next trip around the sun be fruitful, enjoyable and peaceful.

Manning the Door

2011-11-01T15:05:00.000-07:00

I love holding the bowl on Halloween almost as much as I used to love going from door to door in the night. My high school son decorated with his usual panache using bloody body parts, skulls, snakes, life-like baby dolls, severed heads, giant spiders, tomb stones, strobe lights and a fog machine. I don’t mind leaving that to him. But let me see all the costumes on the wee, and not so wee as they cavort in darkness laughing and running up and down the street calling out; letting the clan know which house has the best loot.

First, I don’t hand out candy. I hold the bowl out and let them choose. So what if some of them fill their grubby paws and pull back 3 or 5 pieces? I won’t be there for the sugar induced meltdown. I just get to see the glee in their eyes as they score the big haul.

Some kids get a bit nervous around the decorations. They can be intimidating. First you’re blinded by fog and strobes. Then, a skull flashes at you from the rockery… and is that a severed hand over by that snake? Where’s the candy? Up those dark steps to the distant door? Only the brave make it that far.

Not to worry. I bring the bowl down for the faint of heart. One little mass murderer (Jason I believe) declined the journey, but he’ll be back next year and try again. One of my favorites was when two brothers came. The young one, dressed like a pirate stomped boldly up and raked in the booty. “My brother’s coming,” he told me. I looked, but the brother was not moving. He stood right next to Mom way down by the street staring up at his young sibling (the meeker one was a ninja). No trouble. I came out to deliver the bowl, following the pirate. “Joey!” yelled the ninja. “There’s a guy! Right BEHIND YOU!” I smiled and held out the bowl as I drew close. He looked up at me and smiled, seeing I was not going to chainsaw anyone. “Dude!” He said in relief as he picked a few pieces from the bowl.

Pirates: 1 Ninjas: 0, if you’re scoring at home.

We moved about 6 bags of cheap American confection in under 3 hours.

9 October 1940 – 8 December 1980

2011-10-06T07:19:00.000-07:00

This from one of the most successful musicians of our time. His view, given the chance to slow down and not be the top dog anymore must have been... what? Interesting? Amusing? Enlightening? And, in simply observing all of this, he writes another beautiful song.

==============================================
People say I'm crazy doing what I'm doing
Well they give me all kinds of warnings to save me from ruin
When I say that I'm o.k. well they look at me kind of strange
Surely you're not happy now you no longer play the game

People say I'm lazy dreaming my life away
Well they give me all kinds of advice designed to enlighten me
When I tell them that I'm doing fine watching shadows on the wall
Don't you miss the big time boy you're no longer on the ball

I'm just sitting here watching the wheels go round and round
I really love to watch them roll
No longer riding on the merry-go-round
I just had to let it go

Ah, people asking questions lost in confusion
Well I tell them there's no problem, only solutions
Well they shake their heads and they look at me as if I've lost my mind
I tell them there's no hurry
I'm just sitting here doing time

I'm just sitting here watching the wheels go round and round
I really love to watch them roll
No longer riding on the merry-go-round
I just had to let it go
I just had to let it go
I just had to let it go
==============================================
RIP

His spirit is missed in this world. His time was short, but had he used it more frantically it would not have been his spirit.

My Daughter Caught me Reading

2011-09-29T08:41:00.000-07:00

My girl is in seventh grade. A person’s mind turns a corner during that year, as it does during many years. In this year she is observing and putting together judgments in new, somehow more ethereal ways. Recently she sat down next to me on the sofa and struck up a conversation.

Daughter: What’s that you’re reading Daddy?

Daddy: Bloodborn. (Looks at cover.) By Karen Kincy.

Daughter: Is it good?

Daddy: Yeah. This is the second book, after Other.

Daughter: What’s it about?

Daddy: A teenage guy is turned into a werewolf in a world where all sorts of other types of beings exist – vampires, fairies, trolls…

Daughter: Is it funny?

Daddy: At times, but not like the Disk World series. He’s stuck in a torn love situation, see and…

Daughter: (Nodding.) You liked those ones about the vampire girl in high school too, right?

Daddy: The series by Melissa Francis? Bite Me? Love Sucks? Those had more comedy to them, yeah. I like funny.

Daughter: And Juliet Immortal? You just finished that one.

Daddy: Less funny but great writing. Stacey Jay also wrote that great series about a zombie settling cheerleader. That had some chuckles.

Daughter: The Megan Berry series you showed me.

Daddy: Yeah. (Waits for more questions… begins to read again.)

Daughter: You’re starting to remind me of a teenage girl, Daddy.

Daddy: (Thinks for a moment.) It’s the hips, right? I’ve started working out again and I’ll try to cut back on the ice cr…

Daughter: The books, Daddy. They’re what you used to call “paranormal bodice rippers.”

Daddy: (Glowering.) Don’t you have homework?

Nosy kid.I notice she keeps reading these things right after I do.

Happy Labor Day!

2011-09-02T14:52:00.001-07:00

This Labor Day, celebrate and raise a glass to those who died so that we can work with dignity and safety. They established the strong middle class we have enjoyed up to now.

July 1835: Children employed in the silk mills in Paterson, New Jersey go on strike for the 11-hour day, 6 days a week. Children, mind you.

July 1851: Two railroad strikers are shot dead and others injured by the state militia in Portage, New York.

January 1874: The original Tompkins Square Riot. As unemployed workers demonstrated in New York City's Tompkins Square Park, a detachment of mounted police charged into the crowd, beating men, women and children indiscriminately with billy clubs and leaving hundreds of casualties in their wake. Commented Abram Duryee, the Commissioner of Police: "It was the most glorious sight I ever saw..."

1885: Ten coal-mining activists ("Molly Maguires") were hanged in Pennsylvania.

May 1886: Bay View Tragedy -- About 2,000 Polish workers walked off their jobs and gathered at St. Stanislaus Church in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, angrily denouncing the ten hour workday. The protesters marched through the city, calling on other workers to join them. All but one factory was closed down as sixteen thousand protesters gathered at Rolling Mills. Wisconsin Governor Jeremiah Rusk called the state militia. The militia camped out at the mill while workers slept in nearby fields. On the morning of May 5th, as protesters chanted for the eight-hour workday, General Treaumer ordered his men to shoot into the crowd, some of whom were carrying sticks, bricks, and scythes, leaving seven dead at the scene, including a child. The Milwaukee Journal reported that eight more would die within twenty-four hours, adding that Governor Rusk was to be commended for his quick action in the matter.

November 1887: In the Thibodaux massacre in Thidodaux, Louisiana a local militia, aided by bands of "prominent citizens," shot at least 35 unarmed black sugar workers striking to gain a dollar-per-day wage, and lynched two strike leaders.

1890: Labor Leader Eugene V. Debs founded the American Railway Union (ARU) as an all craft organization. The ARU, however, was destroyed a few years later by company management, with government collusion and the use of federal troops during the Pullman Strike in 1894.

February 1894: In Cripple Creek, Colorado, miners went on strike when mine owners announced an increase from eight to ten hours per day, with no increase in wages. This strike marked perhaps the only time in American history that a state militia was called out to protect miners from sheriff's deputies.

September 1896: The state militia was sent to Leadville, Colorado to break a miner's strike.

September 1897: Lattimer Massacre -- 19 unarmed striking coal miners and mine workers were killed and 36 wounded by a posse organized by the Luzerne County sheriff for refusing to disperse near Hazleton, Pennsylvania. The strikers, most of whom were shot in the back, were originally brought in as strike-breakers, but later organized themselves.

November 1903: Colorado Labor Wars -- Troops were dispatched to Cripple Creek, Colorado to defeat a strike by the Western Federation of Miners, with the specific purpose of driving the union out of the district. The strike had begun in the ore mills earlier in 1903, and then spread to the mines.

July 1903: Labor organizer Mary Harris "Mother" Jones leads child workers in demanding a 55 hour work week.

June 1904: A battle between the Colorado Militia and striking miners at Dunnville ended with six union members dead and 15 taken prisoner. Seventy-nine of the strikers were deported to Kansas two days later.

November 1909: The New York shirtwaist strike of 1909 (Uprising of the 20,000). Female garment workers went on strike in New York; many were arrested. A judge told those arrested: "You are on strike against God." (Seriously? A garment company is God?)

March 1911: Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire -- The Triangle Shirtwaist Company, occupying the top three floors of a ten-story building in New York City, was consumed by fire. One hundred and forty-six people, mostly women and young girls working in sweatshop conditions, died.

January–March 1912: Lawrence textile strike in Lawrence, Massachusetts, often known as the "Bread and Roses" strike. Dozens of different immigrant communities united under the leadership of the Industrial Workers of the World (IWW) in a largely successful strike led to a large extent by women. The strike is credited with inventing the moving picket line, a tactic devised to keep strikers from being arrested for loitering. It also adopted a tactic used before in Europe, but never in the United States, of sending children to sympathizers in other cities when they could not be cared for by strike funds. On 24 February, women attempting to put their children on a train out of town were beaten by police, shocking the nation

April 1912: The National Guard was called out against striking West Virginia coal miners.

June 1913: Police shot three maritime workers (one of whom was killed) who were striking against the United Fruit Company in New Orleans.

April 1914: The "Ludlow Massacre." In an attempt to persuade strikers at Colorado's Ludlow Mine Field to return to work, company "guards," engaged by John D. Rockefeller, Jr. and other mine operators and sworn into the State Militia just for the occasion, attacked a union tent camp with machine guns, then set it afire. Five men, two women and 12 children died as a result.

January 1915: World famous labor leader Joe Hill was arrested in Salt Lake City, Utah. He was convicted on trumped up murder charges, and was executed 21 months later despite worldwide protests and two attempts to intervene by President Woodrow Wilson. In a letter to Bill Haywood shortly before his death he penned the famous words, "Don't mourn - organize!" On this same day, twenty rioting strikers were shot by factory guards at Roosevelt, New Jersey.

August 1916: Strikebreakers hired by the Everett Mills owner Neil Jamison attacked and beat picketing strikers in Everett, Washington. Local police watched and refused to intervene, claiming that the waterfront where the incident took place was Federal land and therefore outside their jurisdiction. (When the picketers retaliated against the strikebreakers that evening, the local police intervened, claiming that they had crossed the line of jurisdiction.) Three days later, twenty-two union men attempted to speak out at a local crossroads, but each was arrested; arrests and beatings of strikebreakers became common throughout the following months, and on 30 October vigilantes forced IWW speakers to run the gauntlet, subjecting them to whipping, tripping kicking, and impalement against a spiked cattle guard at the end of the gauntlet. In response, the IWW called for a meeting on 5 November. When the union men arrived, they were fired on; seven people were killed, 50 were wounded, and an indeterminate number woundup missing.

5 November 1916: The Everett Massacre (also known as Bloody Sunday) was an armed confrontation between local authorities and members of the Industrial Workers of the World (IWW) union, commonly called "Wobblies", which took place in Everett, Washington on Sunday, November 5, 1916. The tragic event marked a time of rising tensions in Pacific Northwest labor history.

July 1917: The Bisbee Deportation: After seizing the local Western Union telegraph office in order to cut off outside communication, several thousand armed vigilantes forced 1,185 men in Bisbee, Arizona into manure-laden boxcars and "deported" them to the New Mexico desert. The action was precipitated by a strike when workers' demands (including improvements to safety and working conditions at the local copper mines, an end to discrimination against labor organizations and unequal treatment of foreign and minority workers, and the institution of a fair wage system) went unmet. The "deportation" was organized by Sheriff Harry Wheeler. The incident was investigated months later by a Federal Mediation Commission set up by President Woodrow Wilson; the Commission found that no federal law applied, and referred the case to the State of Arizona, which failed to take any action, citing patriotism and support for the war as justification for the vigilantes' action.

September 1917: Federal agents raid the IWW headquarters in 48 cities.

June 1918: A Federal child labor law, enacted two years earlier, was declared unconstitutional. A new law was enacted 24 February 1919, but this one too was declared unconstitutional (on 2 June 1924).

August 1919: United Mine Worker organizer Fannie Sellins was gunned down by company guards in Brackenridge, Pennsylvania.

November 191: Centralia Massacre -- IWW organizer Wesley Everest was lynched after a Centralia, Washington IWW hall was attacked by Legionnaires.

May 1931: Gun-toting "vigilantes" attack striking miners in Harlan County, Kentucky.

March 1932: Police kill striking workers at Ford's Dearborn, Michigan plant.

October 1933: 18,000 cotton workers went on strike in Pixley, California. Four were killed before a pay-hike was finally won.

May 1934: Police attacked and fired upon striking Teamster truck drivers in Minneapolis who were demanding recognition of their union, wage increases, and shorter working hours. As violence escalated, Governor Olson went so far as to declare martial law in Minneapolis, deploying 4,000 National Guardsmen. The strike ended on August 21 when company owners finally accepted union demands.

September 1934: A strike in Woonsocket, Rhode Island, part of a national movement to obtain a minimum wage for textile workers, resulted in the deaths of three workers. Over 420,000 workers ultimately went on strike.

May 1937: Police kill 10 and wounded 30 during the "Memorial Day Massacre" at the Republic Steel plant in Chicago.

June 1938: The Wages and Hours (later Fair Labor Standards) Act is passed, banning child labor and setting the 40-hour work week. The Act went into effect in October 1940, and was upheld in the Supreme Court on 3 February 1941.

December 1941: The AFL pledges that there will be no strikes in defense-related industry plants for the duration of the war.

August 1981: Federal air traffic controllers began a nationwide strike after their union rejected the government's final offer for a new contract. Most of the 13,000 striking controllers defied the back-to-work order, and were dismissed by President Reagan on 5 August. Reagan ordered them to leave.

Open Letter to Anyone Moving to Seattle

2011-09-01T08:27:00.000-07:00

Do you own a green Subaru Outback? First of all, congratulations on joining with your people. Your wandering is over. You have found your tribe.

Now.

I would like you to go out and take a good long look at your Subaru. What kind of roof-top carrier do you own? On which side of the car is it most easily accessed? The bike rack: what is the make and model? Scan your bumper. On which side is the tastefully mainstream liberal sticker placed?

Once you receive your Washington plates, memorize them.

Any one of these details may be the one that will help you to differentiate your car from the other 400 green Subaru Outbacks parked at the Whole Foods at any given time.

If the memory load seems like too much, I suggest you sign the side of your car with a two inch paint brush.

Akira

2011-08-29T10:08:00.000-07:00

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0094625/

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Akira_%28film%29

I suppose I should say first that this animated movie has made me ponder its substance many hours after viewing it. It is not something to be ignored once it enters your consciousness. However, I started around 11pm on Saturday night and I was sleepy. The film didn’t have what it takes to keep me from shutting it down and going to bed before finishing, but I was strong enough to make me finish it Sunday night.

I know. Mixed review, right?

Maybe it would have kept me riveted if the atomic bomb worried at my being a bit more. Stated briefly, the film explores the idea of humans gaining godlike powers which manifest as nuclear explosions if the host is not properly aligned – inner peace I suppose. (Many of you may have seen it already. For those who haven’t and want a full synopsis, check the links above.) It’s set in post WWIII Tokyo – a punk, dystopian world. Science and the military struggle with their own concerns while humanity struggles to exist. Not being haunted by the Bomb, my psyche wasn’t feeling the tug.

This is not a beautiful Hayao Miyazaki anime with futuristic flying wonders and gentle light sifted through branches. At times the animation is relatively simplistic. Where it shines is when it is at its most disturbing. Blood dripping from mouths… a boy bloating into a muscle and wire monstrosity as big as a soccer field screaming in pain and fear… bridges buckling and flipping, sending protesters, police and religious fanatics alike to violent deaths. These scenes stay with you. No one is spared. The carnage does not care who you are – it consumes like flame.

All that aside, there were times when the physics didn’t line up. The animation of a truck on the road wasn’t convincing. Faces were dead – not lively as a moving face should be. Maybe this was ground breaking in 1988 when it came out, but the bar is higher today. I can care about a goldfish that turns into a little girl if the animation chops are brilliant. Had the animation been more rich, I’m sure Akira could have drawn me in more.

Looking on the Bright Side

2011-08-23T08:52:00.000-07:00

In my youth I was a contented, emaciated stick able to eat a truckload of spreadable fat flavored goober lumps on sugar-frosted lard crackers (deep fried, naturally) without gaining an ounce. In college I had a 29 inch waist and a 36 inch inseam.

Yesterday was a milestone for me.

There I was, foraging among the racks, looking for slacks. For the first time, my inseam was no longer the higher of the two relevant numbers. And no, my legs haven’t shrunk.

More disturbing than this sobering discovery was my family’s extreme lack of surprise. After making a variety of unnecessary and colorful observations my wife asked, “So what are you going to do about it?”

The answer was obvious, of course. Start wearing heels. I mean, if I’m going to be sporting a round booty, I might as well heft it up and show it off. Then I can buy pants with a longer inseam without tripping over the cuff.

The only danger is walking down the hills in Seattle without breaking into a headlong run.

Poo Todd

2011-05-12T10:45:00.000-07:00

Anyone who has read THE KNIFE OF NEVER LETTING GO knows where I’m coming from with that title. One of the things I like about getting involved in a book is how it takes over my head. I get up in the morning and become Todd’s talking dog, Manchee. I’m not finished reading this one, so I’m still immersed. I’m swimming in New World waters as I wander through my day.

Previously, I read several books in a row that were written in present tense. It seemed to be a trend. And for the books I was reading, it worked. It also got under my skin. The next think I knew, I saved off a copy of my current ms and rewrote the entire thing in present tense. As I drew near the final chapter a dawning realization began to warm my brow. Rays of awareness illuminated me. I stopped in mid stride and spoke into my writing space. “This sucks!”

Damn.

I had even made improvements to the text beyond changing tense. I couldn’t go back to the previous version without losing a great deal.

Now, I have changed it back to past tense and I’m in love again. That was a close call.

I’ve got to learn to filter better. I mean, as I read THE KNIFE OF NEVER LETTING GO, it’s not like I want to start spelling words like creachers or selecshun.

“Spell check, Todd.”

“I know, Manchee. I know.”

It Bit Me

2011-04-12T09:17:00.001-07:00

I’m back to hiding the cover of the book I read on public transportation as I ride to work. There I sit, looking respectable in my dark tie and charcoal slacks, my lunch neatly boxed, computer bag on my lap, and a copy of BITE ME by Melissa Francis open, hoping no one realizes that I’m a freak.

This is one of those fun, light teen vampire novels that knows how to laugh – a feminine counterpart of sorts to the Vladimir Chronicles by Heather Brewer. It’s a delightful, fast paced romp through a well-defined and unique mythology set in a modern day American high school. I’ll definitely be picking up LOVE SUCKS, next in the series by Melissa Francis.

I have written a review along these lines before – talking about being a little embarrassed to read the book in public – and I hope the authors don’t take it the wrong way. I read PLENTY of kids books on the bus. The ones that I blush at are the ones that dabble in discussing teen girl turn-ons. I mean, I’m a bit past being allowed to intrude in that world. That time for me has come and gone.

But hey, I guess it sells books to girls – the actual target audience. I’m just saying the rest of the book is too enjoyable for me to miss just because of a few moments I manage to speed read.

How Far Should One Go When Promoting Themselves?

2011-03-23T09:09:00.000-07:00

Where is the line between getting yourself out there so that you can be found and shamelessly screaming into the interweb and elsewhere in ways that only add to the noise (he asked in his pointless blog)? I’m addicted to a few publishing industry blogs; keeping track of what these published authors, agents, and editors (anon or otherwise) are thinking about and discussing. There are also open social media like Facebook and more insular social media like publishing industry message boards (I’m looking at you, Verla).

I know, some of these aren’t about self-promotion, but self-growth and focus. I love me some inside scoop on how to approach agents and editors, and there is no better place to get that than writer focused message boards. Not even agent web sites are as helpful. But, as I said, those aren’t about self-promotion.

Blogs and Facebook. That’s where I see authors promoting their works and even the flavor of their lives. For the more sparkly among us, that works. They get their voice out there simply by covering their lives and incidentally mentioning and displaying published works. Others, cover writing related activities like the recent prison trip research articles posted by Jennifer Hillier. They made for fascinating reading and gave me an insight into how she goes about fleshing out her thrillers. I also have HUNDREDS of publishing industry related “friends” on Facebook. Okay, some are actual friends (online or otherwise), some are people I met at conferences and others are people I would love to meet. I don’t have hundreds of friends. I don’t have dozens of friends. (Stop me if I digress.)

Of course, it’s too early for me to worry much about promotion. Despite various nibbles on one or another manuscript, agents haven’t beaten a trail to my door, just yet. I’m not published. Really, what I want to promote is a book or five, not me. I’m dreaming ahead to the golden days beyond my first book signing event. Anyone out there have any guidance? Are blogs effective? Do author pages on Facebook improve sales and name recognition? Do I really need to get all Charlie Sheen so that I stand out in the crowd? Because I’m up for the WINNING part. (Whether I go warlock remains to be seen.)

I am seriously looking for feedback on this one. Feel free to comment, IM or email as our relationship status indicates. What forms of self-promotion are actually working for writers today?

Daughters, Pirates and Innocence; a Father’s Perspective

2011-03-07T14:37:00.000-08:00

My sixth grade daughter saw the existing Pirates of the Caribbean movies for the first time recently. She has since gone off the deep end for Depp. He has unbuckled her proverbial swash, so to speak. I complained to my wife saying, that our daughter seemed to have developed a Johnny D. jones. She replied, “so has her mother.”

Couldn’t have been less helpful.

What happened to my little girl? And yes, that is rhetorical. PLEASE don’t answer that one.

I am slowly coming to terms with the idea that I must release my children little by little. But the youngest was the daughter and now she’s not quite so young. It is a bitter-sweet pill for a father to swallow.

Her class performed the Gilbert and Sullivan hit, Pirates of Penzance over the weekend and I was given another piratical glimpse into the strange landscape that is a very young, soon-to-be-but-not-yet-thank-you-very-much woman’s heart. There is that completely mandatory and inexplicable twist near the end where the pirates are all declared to be not just poor pirates but, “gentlemen who have gone wrong.” The herd of daughters (equal in number to the pirate crew) shriek “GENTLEMEN WHO HAVE GONE WRONG? EEEEEEE!” and run into the nearest cut-throat’s waiting arms.

May the earth open and swallow me, so help me these kids got the point. They hammed up this silliness with eyes open.

Speaking as one of the Good Guys in this world (and not in the tough way, like Clint Eastwood’s Man with No Name) I would rather the female heart save up this interest in Bad Boys until later in life, when it becomes even less my business. It would be easier on us fathers. I begin to see why fathers were so glad to see their daughters dating me back in high school. I was such a virtuous sap.

My only consolation is that, while I’ll not be swinging on a ripped sail to set young damsels’ hearts a-pounding like the thundering hooves of raging horses, I make one hell of a Daddy.

And if Johnny Depp is a good father, this would not be a good time to tell me.

Why do I Torture Myself?

2011-02-21T09:45:00.000-08:00

It’s not just for kicks, I swear. The truth is, I can’t stop. Even when I’ve already experienced a particular form of ritual humiliation, rubbing my nose in the unattainable, being slapped lopsided by superiority, I crawl back for more. It’s a fetish. I have a fetish for reading Neil Gaiman. I not only read his work once, but come slithering back for seconds. It’s degrading. On my worst days, it is crushing.

Right now I’m re-reading STARDUST. The seemingly effortless touch with which he creates a modern fairytale that rivals stories written in the days when such things seemed possible melts into my eyes and drips into my heart. I find myself thinking, “Yes! This is the story I’m going to write!” And then I shake my head and feel the weight of the book in my hands mocking me, saying, “I’m already here, chump.”

ANANSI BOYS? THE GRAVEYARD BOOK? CORALINE? I’ve bitch-slapped myself with each of these. Apparently, besides being able to turn out enchanting, unique works, the guy is fairly good looking as well. (No, that’s not part of my kink. I’m taking that from feminine authority – women writers of my acquaintance.) Did I hear he’s recently married? Even his damn dog looks sweet!

On a good day, I tell myself that I have identified a goal. I have set the bar high. If I can write a story worthy of the likes of Gaiman or Twain, I will die happy, published or not. Not a book like theirs. Imitation would never do for either of them. I have my own voice. Now I just have to break through a few more artistic doors to advance to the level I hope to attain.

I guess that’s why I torture myself.

Surprises

2011-02-16T10:03:00.000-08:00

Ever have irrelevant characters and story snippets pop into your head and have no idea what to do with them? All I know is, I like this old woman.

= = = = =

SURPRISES

She stood bent over the low basin, working the course cloth down the washboard into the rapidly cooling water. Twenty one strokes each time. She adjusted the fabric in her red hands and began again. “1... 2… 3… 4…” she counted as she worked. The rhythm was comforting and it kept her from thinking about the repetitiveness of it all. And the unrelenting gray of the sky. It kept her from thinking about anything, really.

She could tell by the way the door banged against the wall and how long it took to close who it was that came in without turning to look. “12… 13… 14…”

She heard him clomp over to the bed, shoes still on. He was sniffling – most likely caught that flu that was going around. He never ate enough fruit. He never protected himself with ceremony and herbs. It was like he wanted to die. He was so flighty – always half out of his body.

“19… 20… 21…” She adjusted the fabric once more. “1…2… 3…”

The old springs on the bed groaned and finally, one shoe hit the floor.

“8… 9… 10… 11… 12… 13… 14… 15… 16… 17… 18… 19…” She stopped counting and turned. Why hadn’t he dropped the other shoe?

He wasn’t there. Neither was his shoe. The room was empty.

With cold water dripping from her raw knuckles she remembered, they had buried him a month ago.

Nodding, she turned back to her basin. Where was she? “9… 10… 11…” she scrubbed the cloth down the board. No… that wasn’t right. Still, better too much than not enough. It was always not enough. That was the main problem.

Finally, she could begin wringing out the shirt. One of his. It wasn’t very dirty this time around. That was a blessing. In fact, after washing all of his things the water was still pure enough to begin hers. When was the last time that happened?

Last week.

She twisted his wet shirt one more time in her strong hands. Oh, that’s right. He hasn’t worn any of this. She draped it over the line by the window between his socks and pants. Everything dripped softly onto the rough wooden floor.

He’s late. She looked at the door, willing it to bang open and let him in with a gust of cold air.

After a while she pulled the basket containing her own dirty clothes over next to the basin. She slithered out of the skirt she was wearing and started on that first. She would want it dry first. “1... 2… 3… 4…”

She stopped. There was hardly any suds left after doing all of his clothes. And the water was cold. She picked up a slim sliver of soap and a knife. The suds were easily rectified, but she didn’t want to heat up the water again – all that lifting and sloshing – coaxing the stove back to life. Trimming thin slivers into the water, she glanced over at the stove. The coals were almost gray inside – tiny red eyes of brilliance peeked and glimmered now and then.

When she looked back, there was red in the water as if someone had spilled ink. The knife and soap were red as well. She had cut herself and it was getting all over her skirt. “Crap,” she muttered as she dropped the soap and knife and wrapped her hand in her slip to stop the bleeding. A crimson dot grew into a large kidney shaped stain. “Shit!” That was two pieces of clothing ruined.

She was just struggling against her slip, trying to remove it with one hand when the door burst open. Surprised, she spun and saw him walk in, shaking the wet from his shoulders and hat, spattering her floor.

“Where have you been?” she asked.

“Out,” he replied. “But I’m back now.”

“Take off your shoes,” she snapped, not wanting him to drag in mud.

“Ellen?” he put a hand on her shoulder and turned her to face him. “We need to leave.”

“Leave? In the middle of the laundry? And me with a bleeding hand?”

“Your hand is fine, and the laundry doesn’t matter.” He took her hands in his – soft fire hands he had, artistic. She felt the heat of annoyance that his hands were so much softer than her hard working hands. But that was the nature of his work – writing and such. Never bringing in enough.

He raised her hands to his lips and kissed them, one finger at a time.

“Joshua!” she gasped, expecting to see blood on his lips. When she looked, her hands had stopped bleeding. In fact, she couldn’t find the cut. “But… the knife!” She turned to face the basin and it was gone.

“You’re done with that knife, Dear.”

“Why?”

He was always so cryptic. Half of the time he was on another planet.

“You just are.” He smiled and the sun warmed outside the window to a brilliance she wouldn’t have expected for another three or four months – until high summer.

Where had the wash gone? There was nothing blocking the window – no line of clothes. And the sky was the blue of a robin’s egg. It made her heart blossom like a flower.

“You’ve always been full of surprises,” She told him as he led her to the door.

Perspective

2011-01-31T08:58:00.001-08:00

David in Spinal Tap might say, “Too much, there's too much f**king perspective, now.” When it comes to the point of view (POV) of the main character (MC) in a novel, can there be such a thing? I was hammered by the brilliantly executed perspective given to the MCs of the last two novels I read, DOG ON IT by Spencer Quinn and ROOM by Emma Donoghue. These two books couldn’t be less alike. What they have in common is a highly developed perspective for the point of view for their MCs.

I keep saying “perspective” because I don’t know how else to put it. POV (the way the author allows you to see and hear what's going on) doesn’t seem to pin-point it. In DOG ON IT, Quinn uses the POV of a dog who works as the partner to a detective based in Arizona. Lots of stories are written from a dog’s POV. There are also generations of detective stories out there and more coming monthly. It’s a popular genre. The difference is Quinn nails it. Quinn even captures the scattered, poor long-term memory in a way that takes you right into a canine’s skull. Ever read any of the Hank the Cow Dog series for kids? Think Hank, but in an adult world written for adults, and now make it real. This book is a delight for anyone who has ever had a canine best friend.

ROOM takes a more sobering bend, yet comes from the POV of a five-year old boy; a boy who was born into captivity. His mother was snatched off the streets and he was born in the 11x11 foot room they live in. The mother has done an amazing job of protecting him and giving him a life under these conditions, even as she is raped night after night. Even as she struggles against her own depression. And, being captive is only half of the story. How would a boy raised under those circumstances cope if they made it to freedom one day? The entire world used to have three people; him, Ma and Old Nick their keeper. Now he has other family and Ma has other names and doesn’t know everything. Think of the change in sensory load and expectations. Donoghue captured the struggles and perspective of such a mind that make this narrative ring true, and causes heartache.

I guess I’m just using “perspective” to augment and sharpen POV. But in the case of these two books, I think it is justified – they are that sharp and spot on.

Tucson, My Hat is Off to You

2011-01-13T09:19:00.000-08:00

A madman has tried to give your city a bad name. But the rest of you showed your true nature – the true nature of your city. You ran to help. You stopped the madness.

I heard someone ask, why was he captured alive? Doesn’t everyone in Tucson have a gun? I’ll admit, I’m not a fan of handguns. They have no use but to kill people, something I have no interest in doing. But the fact that so many of you were in fact armed (one of the men holding the madman said he was packing) and did not draw and fire tells me that you are the responsible gun owners that the NRA holds up as examples of responsible ownership.

Just imagine the death toll had one or two people slipped a gun from their belts and began firing. Chaos would have erupted. They would have begun shooting each other, unable to tell the protectors from the original gunman. More and more innocents would have been hit by crossing bullets. More people would have been inspired to draw and add to the mess.

But despite all the available guns, the only one who fired was the madman.

The restraint and judgment of the people of Tucson should be saluted.

Welcome Nate (waggle)

2011-01-04T08:29:00.000-08:00

If I could experience non-linear time, Nathan might have been the inspiration for the kitten known as Mittens in the previous post. Granted, Nathan is gray, not black. And he has a white chin and chest. But he is the spiritual brother of that story’s plucky little hero. Little being the operative word - he’s about the size as a clutch purse. (Everybody in the house say AWWwwww!)

No, he didn’t knock over the tree. No, I wasn’t hoping for a dog. “Nate” and I hang out happily together without having to go through any bonding trauma, thank you. He has a supernaturally loud purr which he can sustain forEVER. He breaks it out while roaming around on my shoulders and rubbing on my face. Before he pounces (on say, a bottle cap) he does this little butt-waggle thing that should be an inspiration to all of us. Everybody should have a little butt-waggle thing they perform just before leaping toward something new.

On that note, (butt-waggle) HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Mittens vs. the Toy Tree

2010-12-13T10:21:00.000-08:00

(Blogger’s Note: Fifth in the Stories Unchained series. I actually pitched this one in graphic novel format a few years back. I had this idea of writing a different Mittens story for all major holidays and/or seasons. Writing for a GN was an interesting exercise, separating scene description from dialogue from narrative. For this post, I reintegrated these and combed through it a few times. I enjoy the relationship between the father and Mittens. As a side note, this was modified from an old family story – something that happened in our house when I was too young to remember.)

Everything was new to Mittens. When you’re only six months old, life is like that. Nobody stops to explain anything to a kitten. Well, that isn’t completely true. Jill, the girl that lived with Mittens, often made noises at him. The trouble was, she uttered that babbling human nonsense instead of a sensible system of purrs, meows and grumphs like any normal cat.

“Daddy is bringing the Christmas tree and we’re going to decorate it, Mittens! Isn’t that exiting?” To Mittens, it sounded like, “Blah blah blah blah blah blah, Mittens! blah blah blah?”

Jill was his special friend. Nobody spent more time with him than Jill. If only she would make sense. She stroked his black ears and back just how he liked it. He stretched on her lap, digging his front claws lovingly into her leg. Those paws were the only white on his body – quite stylish in contrast to his jet black fur.

Why had the weather turned so cold, and what had happened to the daily warm pool of sunshine, Mittens wanted to know. He meowed while Jill prattled on, asking her, “Where did the warm go? Can you bring it back? Maybe one of those big people could help you. They’re very clever with a can opener…”

Mittens placed a paw on Jill’s hand. He looked imploringly into her eyes. How could he make her answer his important questions?

Jill moved Mittens from her lap and skipped to the front door. Through the glass Mittens saw the adult male approaching. He looked again – yes – the big male was carrying an entire tree.

This was new.

The big male of the family stepped into the house – still carrying that tree. Now, Mittens isn’t prudish, but this was just a bit more variety than he was ready for. Besides, the big male wasn’t as friendly as Jill. Who knew what he might do next?

Mittens bolted to the top of the steps and made his stand. If that big male was going to do anything else crazy, Mittens wanted to be ready for a quick escape to Jill’s bed. He watched as the big male seemed to gather his senses, at least partly. He leaned the tree in a corner – not bringing it deeper into the house.

The smell of it filled Mittens’ nose with pine, and the hint of a few rodents that must have run like fury when the big male took their tree. Mittens watched cautiously from the steps. Did that silly male really take the tree and leave the rodents?

Worst. Hunter. Ever.

Jill danced around the room. Mittens took this as a good sign – Jill was happy.

The adult female brought in boxes. The male and female opened several of these. More lovely smells. It wasn’t food or mice, but it was pleasant – like flowers and spices. They fixed the tree so that it stood up by itself without roots.

Odd. Still in the house? Mittens shook his fuzzy head, thinking he had seen everything.

But he hadn’t.

“I just love the cedar and clove sachets,” the big female chirped.

“Is this tree straight?” growled the male.

“May I put the star on top?” Jill hopped on one foot, waving something shiny. Mittens considered leaping at her and climbing up to grab it. No. Too high. He settled for sniffing a bag the female had placed on a table. Should he rip it open?

The two big ones and Jill took shiny things from the boxes one at a time and hung them on the tree. There were lights and balls and bells and well, just about everything and anything, including a sparkly glass pickle.

As they worked, the light of realization shined down upon Mittens. They were making a present for him! Of course! It was too cold to go outside to climb trees now, so they brought this one inside! This was almost as good as all the food and treats they kept giving him!

Too bad the rodents had run off first.

Mittens meowed his thanks, but the human’s didn’t respond. Perhaps they couldn’t hear him over the noise coming from the cabinet in the corner. It was a nice noise, full of pleasant tones and rhythms, and human babble. Jill imitated it in her piping voice.

“On the first noel… the angels did say…”

Mittens approached the tree and sat next to Jill.

“Isn’t it beautiful, Mittens?”

Mittens meowed, “Thanks for the toy.” Jill stroked his back. He smacked one of the shiny balls hanging close to the floor. It swung back and forth gratifyingly.

The big male barked. “Bad kitty! Don’t let that cat play with the ornaments, Jill. He’ll break them.”

Mittens backed away. Jill hovered protectively over him. What was that big guy’s problem? Did he want to play with the tree first? Fine! But he didn’t have to be a grouch about it.

Mittens licked his fur to show he didn’t care, then strolled over to the screened hole in the floor while the family put more toys on the tree. The hole had always been there, but lately hot air came out of it. Since the rest of the world had turned cold, Mittens found this to be a good thing. He moved his favorite resting spot from the window sill to the hole.

He watched them for some time. What is wrong with these people? Not even Jill was batting at the toys dangling so temptingly from every bow. They just smiled at it all. Where they lazy or just lacking in imagination? Mittens considered showing them how it’s done, but then he thought about how much humans sleep at night while he’s awake, getting his exercise.

He could wait.

“Silent night…” Jill’s voice almost put Mittens to sleep.

Eventually, his patience was rewarded. All was quiet, except for the growling snore coming from the adult den. Mittens snuck up on the tree. He batted that big silver ball. It swung silently, but a nearby bell jingled softly as the branch bobbed.

“Szgneerrrrt!” snarled the adult male from his den.

Mitten’s looks up the stairs as the bell and ball swayed. Everyone remained asleep.

He turned back to the tree. My, it was tall! And most of the way up, way out on a branch, was the biggest reddest ball Mittens had ever seen in his life.

He crouched.

It waited up there, unaware that Mittens the Mighty was on the prowl. He slid silently under the lowest bows and found the trunk in pine scented darkness. His sharp claws sank into the soft wood.

As he neared the top, Mittens' footsteps caused thin branches to bend and bells to tinkle. Would his prize be startled and fly off? He stepped with care.

He was on the right branch now, high above the floor. Mittens stepped out as silent as fog, one paw in front of the other. Each step made the red ball bounce. Just a little further now.

The tree tipped. Mittens barely had time to leap neatly to the floor as it drove up to meet him. Everything would have been fine if the tree hadn’t come down after him.

It didn’t hit him hard, but the experience was undignified. A moment ago he had been hunting a ball on a branch and now the entire tree was hunting him! It attacked him! That was not how things were supposed to work!

Mittens became entangled in the tree, lights and ornaments. He was not one to take this lying down. Out came the claws! He smacked at shiny toys and tree branches alike. They were all in it together! Strings of lights wrapped around his legs as he struggled for freedom and revenge. Mittens yowled and spat and snarled in his furious fight with the treacherous tree.

“RAAAAAR!”

Bits of everything flew everywhere.

Once free, Mittens bolted across the room. The far wall came up quickly and he slammed into it.

He was in a corner. There was nothing to do but put all his feet together in a bunch, arch his back, puff out his fur and spit back at the enemy. Mittens put on such a frightening show that the tree made no move to follow.

“HSSSS! RAAAAAR! FSSST!”

The lights clicked on – the entire family was up. But that wasn’t reassuring. Wasn’t it they who set this trap? He hissed and spat a blue streak.

The big male barked louder than Mittens had ever heard him bark before. “Rassum Flabbersnab! Look what that flaknoober cat did!”

“FSSST!”

“Little pitchers, Dear,” said the female.

“What happened?” asked Jill. She rubbed her eyes.

Mittens hissed again for good measure. He still had a few choice words for anyone who would set up such a thing.

The big male growled back. “What happened? Your… PRECIOUS KITTY… knocked over the tree!”

“HSSSS!”

The big female shuffled Jill back up the stairs. The male snarled, grabbed a broom, and cleaned up broken toys.

To Mittens’ amazement, he set the big tree back up! He even put the remaining toys back onto it. Did he honestly think that Mittens was at all interested in that cat trap anymore? Mittens gave him a hard glare.

“Don’t you even think about it!” barked the male.

They stared at each other for a while. Eventually, the big male purred. He reached toward Mittens. “Awww.. Look at you. Your tail is as thick as a toilet brush. You had quite a fright, didn’t you.”

“FSSST!”

“Yes, I guess you did have a scare.” The male continued to babble softly. He pulled his hand back in consideration of Mittens’ extended claws. The man seemed to be thinking of something else for a while. He looked up toward Jill’s den where the female was putting Jill to bed. Then he turned to Mittens. “You know, I was hoping you would be a golden lab, or maybe a shepherd. But my little girl wanted a kitty.”

The male sat next to Mittens on floor looking up the stairs toward Jill’s room. He shrugged. The softness of his tone felt soothing to Mittens. He let some of his fur settle down. “What are you going to do, right? I’m sorry I yelled at you, Mittens.” He stretched out on the floor looking up at the tree. “Friends?”

That was the first time Mittens remembered the big male ever using his name. Jill used it all the time and she loved him. Maybe the big male wasn’t so bad.

“Friends?” meowed Mittens softly. Mittens rubbed up against the male’s scratchy face. The big male held his hand out again. This time Mittens let himself be petted.

“You’re all right, Mittens – not so bad for a cat, at least. Tomorrow I’ll peg that tree to the ceiling so you can climb it all you like. How does that sound?”

Mittens wasn’t sure what the big male was blathering about, but it sounded gentle. He knew there would be more surprises. That can’t be helped when your only six months old. But things were looking up.

A glittering heap of destruction decorated the hearth, the red ball was one of the few remaining toys, and the top star was crocked. The toy tree was beautiful.

Making the Must Read List Available

2010-12-07T09:51:00.000-08:00

Here is a list of the books I’m rotating in so that my kids might pick them up when interested. I change the batting order (ease of availability) depending on the age of the kids. When my kids were younger there were more picture book titles. Now they’re 12 and 15.

A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court
A Tale of Two Cities
Animal Farm
Anne of Green Gables
Catch 22
Catcher in the Rye
Cold Comfort Farm
Cold Shoulder Road
Dune
Great Expectations
Huckleberry Finn
Joan of Arc (Twain's take)
Little Women
Lord of the Flies
Nineteen Eighty Four
Pride and Prejudice
Swallows and Amazons
The Education of Robert Nifkin
The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate
The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy
The Hobbit
To Kill a Mockingbird
Tom Sawyer
Watership Down

Most of these are older books because the new ones catch their attention already. What am I missing for a 12-year old girl and 15-year old boy? Feel free to add ideas.

FLICK

2010-11-30T18:42:00.000-08:00

When my son was in kindergarten, the United States was attacked. Now, he’s in high school and we’re still fighting two wars that were both justified as being necessary after that attack. The world is settling into the idea of war being not just inevitable, but permanent. Ongoing. Endless. Normal.

Let me go out on a limb and say that I think this sucks. Crazy talk? Maybe.

I’m not going to rehash what got us here. Opinions are so polarized at this point that perhaps the less we talk about that the better. Why argue and separate ourselves even further when it will do no good?

But, can we agree that it is a sad state of affairs? I mean, is it possible to feel good about forever killing? There has got to be a better way to spend the rest of our days. And I believe we can get there. Even now.

It’s going to take thousands of baby steps to do it. You’ve heard of death by a thousand cuts? This is life by a thousand hopeful acts. (Did someone say points of light?)

Whatever else you believe in, spend some time and try to also believe that peace is possible. Giving this a thought and acting on it is timely for some – the season of peace on earth, good will toward men. Everyone else has their time and place to do the same. Please us it. I would like my son to remember a time in his life when there was no active war.

Give it a try. What can you lose? A thought for peace has to cost less than blood. Consider this blog post a flicked lighter in a dark crowd. Flick your own. Spread the glow.

Peace.

It’s a MEEE-ray-cul

2010-11-22T11:05:00.001-08:00

Snow.

Now that I live in Seattle instead of Chicago, the magic of seeing those little fluffs wandering aimlessly until they settle on my windshield is back. No longer do I feel like Jack Nicholson in the final moments of The Shining, huddled in a drift, my hands frozen to the shaft of a bloody ax, every time the white stuff accumulates. Instead, I remember the Siamese kids from The King and I as they describe the concept of snow as a miracle.

It happens rarely enough, here down in the low lands, and stays for such a short while that it is a delight. Not that anybody here has a clue how to drive in the stuff. Transplants from LA zip down the road and cram on their brakes four feet from the stoplight, only to glide gracefully through the intersection, performing a slow motion pirouette. If they live through being T-boned by the first Subaru Outback that draws a bead on them, they leap out shouting, “I kept hitting the brake but it wasn’t doing any good!” This is a direct quote.

In Seattle the snow melts away before it has a chance to become black from city grime. That is the magic. No ugly dead snow. No need to shovel it. It just goes away all on its own. By late January in Chicago you can track the winter weather patterns by walking out to the curb and counting the various shades of black to gray snow collected in the strata exposed as a cross section by the occasional plow trucks that grind by, pushing snow onto parked cars and scattering salt like feeding chickens.

The upside in Chicago is they can drive in the stuff. At least on flat land. I learned the folly of my pride the first time I tried to take a 40 degree incline in Seattle after a strong storm. I was driving a wimpy little Escort sans chains or snow tires and had already driven passed at least 15 trucks in ditches on the flat highway to get nearly home, only to be stopped by that slope. We ended up sleeping in a hotel five blocks from our house, waiting for a store to open so we could buy chains and get home the next morning.

Speaking of hills, the slopes are beginning to open for skiing. Actual downhill skiing. Not like Mount Trashmore near Chicago, an un-groomed landfill that people ski on.

Then again, when is the last time I had a real Italian Beef smothered in mozzarella and hot peppers? I may not miss snow shovels, but there are things I do miss.

Simplicity

2010-11-15T09:04:00.000-08:00

How many Knock Knock jokes have stuck with you over the years? Probably just the simplest or most annoying ones.

Knock knock!
Who’s there?
Banana.
Banana who?
Knock knock!
Who’s there?
Banana.
Banana who?
Knock knock!
Who’s there?
Banana.
Banana who?
Knock knock!
Who’s there?
Orange.
Orange who?
Orange you glad I didn’t say banana?

I was ELATED when my son would finally break down and say orange. THRILLED! ELECTRIFIED!

But my favorite Knock Knock joke over the years wins the simplicity award. My daughter came up with this one when she was still in a high chair – barely putting sentences together. Part of the charm was the deadpan delivery, and the fact that she would tell us this joke at least twice during every meal for almost five months.

Knock knock!
Who’s there?
Piggy bank.
Piggy bank who?
Just piggy bank.

It still makes me laugh. I know. I’ll wait for you to compose yourself. Take your time. Feeling better?

Okay, maybe you had to be there.

My point is, simplicity is powerful. (How sad that I didn’t find a simpler way to express that point.)

The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

2010-11-10T09:05:00.000-08:00

I swear I don’t pine for the days of typhoid and being trapped in backwater towns where racism is seen as a right and normal thing. I can count on the fingers of one foot how many times I’ve longed to live in such a setting. Then why, oh spirits that be, why am I drawn to books like Tom Sawyer, Huck Finn and now their female equal in all ways, Calpurnia Tate?

Jacqueline Kelly, say the author notes, was born in New Zealand and raised in Western Canada. Then, how does she write with such compassion and authority about the life of an eleven, almost twelve-year old girl in rural Texas (Fentress area)?

I just finished reading / luxuriating in / being beguiled by / experiencing / consuming The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate, and I swear on the head of Darwin himself, if this doesn’t win awards… wait… question for the Notebook: Has this 2009 debut novel won any awards? Who am I kidding? I’m no scientist like our hero, Calpurnia – I don’t have time for that scientific method malarkey. A quick Google shows me the list of awards: IRA Children's Book Award; IRA Teachers' Choices; Newbery Honor Book; Bank Street/Josette Frank Award; CPL: Chicago Public Library Best of the Best; Texas Lone Star Reading List; Vermont Dorothy Canfield Fisher Award Master List.

Wow. The list looks a bit light for what I was expecting. Wish I had my own award to slap on there.

Am I being too light handed here? Do you get that I liked this one?

Jacqueline mingles the social pressures and expectations of Calpurnia with the girl's own drive to be more than her contemporary society allows. She doesn’t want to darn socks for some man the rest of her life. She wants to explore and discover, just as her granddaddy has taught her. But as the only girl in seven kids, she doesn’t see any way out of her mother’s trap. What amazes me is how Jacqueline managed to explore this territory without giving Calpurnia sensibilities from modern times. Calpurnia doesn’t come off sounding like a girl who has grown up after women had the vote and a whisper of a hope for equal pay. She is a product of her times down to her bones. That, along with the wit, poetry and delightful observations she weaves into the tale make it a masterpiece.

This is It, People

2010-11-02T14:59:00.000-07:00

If you don’t vote, please keep all complaining and dissatisfaction to yourself for the next several years.

Research Makes for a Better Story

2010-11-01T10:01:00.000-07:00

I enjoy reading historical novels not because of the history, but because of the story. I like steampunk for the same reason. I’m not a stickler for accuracy, but I do love a rich backdrop. I can’t help but notice that the best examples of historical fiction are by those who know a great deal about the time they are representing, not to mention the mountains of source material they have close at hand – old documents and primary accounts of life during the times they are writing about. The same goes for steampunk, only their knowledge takes a different specialty. The best examples provide a smattering of details that prove that the author isn’t reinventing the physics of steam pressure, or early flying machines etc.

Lish McBride, the author of Hold Me Closer, Necromancer did her research on necromancy. As she admits, she had some leeway because so little is popularly known, as opposed to our legends of vampires, zombies and werewolves. But still, she had to do her research. You can feel it in the final product.

In my current ms, I’m writing about a young shaman. Given the cultural diversity of people from various groups that fill the role we call shaman, I had to choose one and zero in on what being a shaman means to them. As with necromancy, there isn’t that much, but there are books, and even living shaman. Many of these are reluctant to speak with an outsider, but there are sources. The year 2012 is not seen as an end time, as our media would lead us to believe, but a transition – an awakening. This has made some of the shamanic practitioners more willing to bring their message to the masses. It is time.

It’s isn’t like I’m writing a Shamanism for Dummies manual, but it thrills me how every scrap of understanding I gain regarding the profession adds to the rich backdrop I hope to eventually convey.

Don’t research for accuracy's sake. Research in order to write a better story.

Hold Me Closer, Necromancer

2010-10-29T08:47:00.000-07:00

Am I the last unpublished writer left in Seattle? Or is this city a hotbed of creative muses so profound that there are still more to come? Debut author Lish McBride adds to the list of Seattle-based writers who made my random list of Halloween books to review. Seriously, I didn’t stack the deck. Yet, how could I not include Hold Me Closer, Necromancer?

The real horror for me is how young and talented some of these folks are. Lish is just out of her MFA from New Orleans and moved back to her home turf of Seattle with a book already published. You can find a nice interview with her here. (But don’t rent Meet the Feebles no matter what she said.)

I only just picked up Hold Me Closer, Necromancer – and burned through it. This taste of Seattle lives up to the blurb on the cover (“This is a scary funny book or a funny scary book. In either case, it is a great book. I love it.” ~ Sherman Alexie). The characters and concept are vibrant and original and the pace rocks. She jumps POV back and forth from two sets of characters, writing one in first person and the other in third. Lish orients you instantly during these transitions, keeping your feet on the ground. And you better have sneakers on because she is going to take you someplace fast.

As an aside, you know those conversations writers have about whether we should use chapter titles or just numbers (trust me, they happen)? Lish answers them. Use numbers unless you can come up with relevant titles that delight and entice. She does it while sticking to song titles (She’s a Lady, I Put a Spell on You Because You’re Mine, I Hear You Knockin’ But You Can’t Come In. the hits keep coming). Now I have a benchmark for when I’m considering the possibility of titles versus numbers.

The song connection makes me think that it wasn’t a coincidence that I
had that Elton John song going through my mind as I read this book title.

Do you need a change of diet from zombies and vampires? Check out the burger flipping, sweet tempered necromancer, Samhain Corvus LaCroix. This may be one of my favorites, and from what I see on the grassroots book review sites, Lish has a hit on her hands.

Demonkeeper

2010-10-28T09:00:00.000-07:00

Every kid needs a pet. Nat, a boy who lives alone in Seattle didn’t have to clear his choice with parents first. Okay, that’s not exactly how it happened, but one way or another, his house is packed with demons. It’s more of a zoo, really, than a pet situation – except Nat doesn’t encourage visitors.

Demonkeeper is a funny, inventive romp that keeps your nose in the book. When this first came out my son was in middle school and a reluctant reader. He chewed through this one like a, well, like a demon. I met the author, Royce Buckingham, at a writers conference and I have to say, he was a genuine, agreeable guy – he didn’t seem at all like a demon, or a lawyer, which I understand he used to be.

Nat used the Seattle backdrop in delightful ways – the hills, the weather, bad driving. It has been years since I read this and details still come back to me. I’ve heard rumors of a movie, but haven’t seen anything materialize. (No – the 1994 movie, Demon Keeper, has nothing to do with this.) Maybe Royce’s Demonkeeper will take advantage of the new 3D technology. The premise and story are a natural.

Vampire Books Worth a Smile

2010-10-27T10:51:00.000-07:00

It has been a while since I read these two, but I couldn’t let Halloween slip by without mentioning these two titles: Fat White Vampire Blues and Bloodsucking Fiends. They take place in New Orleans and San Francisco, respectively. Pretty much the only things they have in common are vampires and being blood spitting funny.

Author Andrew Fox (Fat White Vampire Blues) has taken vampires in an entirely new direction. He brings the Big Easy to life in the afterlife of a vampire addicted to the calorie-rich diet of one of the heaviest places to exist. I’ve never actually been to New Orleans, and maybe I’m too late to ever see what it really was. Reading this story made me ache in my heart for what I have missed.

It also made my snort a smoothie through my nose in public. The misadventures of the super-sized Jules Duchon will leave any with a dark sense of humor wanting to belly up for more. Luckily, that is now possible with, yes, you guessed it, Bride of the Fat White Vampire.

In Bloodsucking Fiends by Christopher Moore, Jody is newly turned (unlike Jules who is centuries old). She wakes up under a dumpster with a crispy hand (sticking out in the sun). She chucks the dumpster out of the way, then has to wonder how she managed that trick. Eventually she clues in – she’s a vamp. But what are the rules? She has her research and experimentation cut out for her. This book moves along and keeps you smiling. If you’ve seen the movie and weren’t impressed, give the book a chance.

Chronicles of Vladimir Tod - final?

2010-10-26T10:05:00.000-07:00

I just finished reading what has been billed as the final book in the Chronicles of Vladimir Tod, Twelfth Grade Kills. I have burned through each of these quirky, well-paced books ever since Eight Grade Bites, and have enjoyed every one. Heather Brewer has managed to get a vampire through high school in a way that doesn’t leave you screaming for him to find a better way to spend eternity. These books are funny, fast and exciting.

Granted, he’s actually half vampire, on his father’s side. Born, not made. He hasn’t been moping around for 700 years and suddenly decides to hang out in the daytime under florescent lighting listening to history that he actually lived through being mangled my misinformed neophyte mortals. In this series, HS actually works.

Heather keeps the plot twists and action coming in this “final” book, culmination in an all-out street fight. Vlad takes it on and even ends up with the righteous babe of the story. Good on ye, Vlad.

But, is this the end? Vlad is heading off to Stokerton University (Stoker U) with many enemies still at large. There’s Em and Eddie, as well as a possible Joss (I still don’t trust that guy) to name a few. Might we see a Freshman Year Sucks? I hope so. Getting Henry, October, Joss, Snow and Vlad into a full on college scene would be a hoot.

Paranormalcy

2010-10-22T09:54:00.000-07:00

I have a weakness for humor, particularly mixed with the paranormal. Romance? Whatever. Throw it in there if it will get a funny book published, but PLEASE don’t forget the funny. Double down funny, park the romance on the side, thank you.

My favorite zombie movie? Shaun of the Dead, hands down. Zombieland is good, but who can top the idea of turning zombies into shopping cart wranglers, or locking your good friend/zombie in the back shed and playing video games with him? (The best part of that is, it wasn’t that much of a change for the friend – life as usual, really.)

So when I heard about Paranormalcy, I was as giddy as a schoolgirl. This turns out to be in alignment. The main character is a schoolgirl. Sure, she gets all girly goofy about a boy or two. But even that is approached with humor.

The girl, Evie, lives within a secret international organization dedicated to controlling paranormals which they do in part through “bag and tag.” They put an ankle gizmo onto the werewolf, vampire or whatever that neutralizes it if it tries to get nasty. They also put them to work – once tamed, werewolves make great security guards. Evie is useful because she is able to see passed a monster’s glamour to tell what they are. To other humans, monsters tend to blend in – we can’t tell them from us. (Underneath their glamour, vampires are nasty, dry corpses, by the way.)

I’m not going to post any spoilers. Evie gets into all kinds of trouble and comes down on some tough realizations and choices. Along the way she meets a hunk or two blah blah blah…

But the funny seriously works! Kiersten White (did I mention the author yet?) does a great job of keeping the tension and the humor well balanced. She doesn’t just break the action with humor – she has blended them so that Evie’s voice and perspective is consistently delivered.

Okay – one mild spoiler – I love the part where Evie asks if there are paranormals in the local high school (she’s never been to one and is about to go for the first time). A vampire asks the reasonable question, “Why on Earth would a vampire go to high school?” Thank you, Kiersten. It had to be asked.

My one difficulty is with the cover of the book. Appropriately lovely girl on there. Dramatically displayed. Eye catching. Made me feel like a dirty old man on the bus. Can I help it I like YA?

BOOKS!

Young Adult BOOKS, I mean.

Jeeze the looks I got, reading what looks like a steamy romance novel for young girls while riding the commuter bus. I think the looks got even more pointed when I was laughing…

In short, more books like this please, universe. Thank you very much.

Mother Earth, Father Sky

2010-10-21T09:27:00.001-07:00

(Blogger’s Note: Fourth in the Stories Unchained series. This is an old one. I first dreamed it (literally) when my son was a toddler, so that would be 12 years ago by now. Watching my wife with our kids left an impression on me regarding the different roles of mothers and fathers. I think I published this online once before, so if it feels familiar (beyond being ANOTHER caterpillar story) that might be why. )

On a warm spring morning not so long ago, the earth spun as it should in its orbit around the sun, and the moon in turn kept its monthly schedule with the earth. On the earth stood a tree. On this tree was a branch. On this branch was a twig. And under this twig was a small white egg.

And on this warm spring morning the egg began to shake and bulge and break, as eggs will do when whatever is inside is ready to come out. And whatever it was did come out into the warm spring air. It stretched.

It was a caterpillar.

The newborn caterpillar clung for a moment, upside down under the twig. It swiped at the air trying to decide which way was up and whether up was better than down. Then suddenly the wind made the choice for him. It blew the caterpillar off the twig.

The caterpillar flipped and twisted in the wind, quite enjoying the ride. What fun! he thought to himself. I had no idea I could move like this!

He landed softly in a meadow of thick, dewy grass. And he felt that he was not alone. As his eyes adjusted he saw that the meadow was teaming with life. He saw ants pulling bits of food into holes and beetles climbing clumsily over leaves.

"What is this place?" he wondered out loud. "Where am I?"

"You are with me, as you always have been," came a voice from all around him. The voice was as warm and comforting as the growing day itself.

"And who are you?" he asked, wanting to have a name for this wonderful voice.

"I am your mother, Earth." And that answer was good enough for the caterpillar.

"I'm hungry," he said.

"Then eat," responded Mother Earth. "Take from me what you need. The grass you landed on is tender and new, just like you my little cherub."

So he ate. And the grass was sweet. And for days and weeks, he was content to do little more than eat, drink, and dream.

But eventually he began to look around.

"What is that, Mother?" he asked, pointing to an acorn.

"That is the seed from which a mighty tree will someday grow," she responded.

"It is like an egg," suggested the caterpillar.

"Yes. Very much."

"What is that, Mother?" he asked, pointing to a flower.

"That is a flower. It makes seeds and sweet nectar to eat."

"It is like a mother?"

"A little, yes," replied Mother Earth. "It gives life, and it nurtures. But it, too, is my child."

Then the caterpillar raised up, lifting its front-most legs in the air and looked high up at a cloud floating by. He followed the cloud until he fell over backwards watching it.

Mother Earth caught him.

"And what is all that, Mother?"

"All that?"

"Yes. The blue and the white and the warm light."

"That is your father, Sky," replied Mother Earth. "He wraps around you and me. Together, he and I provide everything you need to grow."

"Is he like an egg?"

"No."

"Is he like a mother?"

"No."

"What is a father like?"

For a while Mother Earth was silent, and then she said, "Do you remember coming from your egg on my tree down to my grass?"

"Yes!" replied the caterpillar. "What fun! May I fly like that again?"

"Actually, that was your father, Sky, bringing you down to me on his winds. He pulled you from my tree and settled you down in my meadow to eat."

The caterpillar thought for a while. "That was nice of him."

"Yes, it was."

"Will he do that again?"

"You will see," said Mother Earth.

Time passed and the caterpillar grew fat eating whatever his mother provided. Occasionally he would look again to his father, Sky, and watch a bird or cloud float by.

The caterpillar had a longing. It was like the empty well you feel inside when you miss someone. But this was the longing to do something.

He remembered floating through the breezes. His father beckoned him with every soft breeze. But whenever the caterpillar mentioned this to Mother Earth, all Mother Earth said was, "You will see."

Eventually, the caterpillar grew sleepy; more sleepy than he could ever remember.

"Why don't you climb that tree and settle in for a nap?" suggested Mother Earth. "You can now make a blanket that will hold you to the tree and keep you warm."

And so the caterpillar climbed the tree. He climbed as high as he could in order to be closer to Father Sky. He fashioned a cocoon around himself, just as Mother Earth had told him.

The caterpillar slept.

When the caterpillar awoke he struggled once more, just as he had to leave the egg, but now to leave the cocoon. And somehow he felt different.

When he emerged he found he had wings. When the wind plucked him from the tree, he did not fall. This time he fluttered!

He was a butterfly!

Father Sky breathed air under the butterfly’s wings and lifted him high. "I knew you could do it!" whispered Father Sky.

The new butterfly played in the air with his father until he got tired, then he settled down on a flower close to Mother Earth. the butterfly drank sweet nectar for the first time.

"My, this is good, Mother," he called.

"Yes. It is all good," said Mother Earth. But the butterfly felt something sad in her voice.

"Is something wrong?" asked the butterfly.

"No," replied Mother Earth. "It's just that I remember when you were just my little caterpillar, and now you are off exploring with your father. You have separated a little from me."

The butterfly stopped sipping nectar for a moment and listened to the meadow. The breeze in the trees called to him, but he was reluctant to leave. He felt that longing again. Only this time he missed someone.

"But you will always be here for me, right, Mother?"

"Of course, my child. Of course."

The butterfly leaped and caught a breeze sent down by Father Sky. "Thank you, Mother!" He yelled as he fluttered high overhead.

In the weeks that followed, the butterfly explored many wonderful things with Father Sky. He fluttered away to distant meadows.

And Father Sky always commented on how strong his wings were getting, and how proud he was that the butterfly could do so much more now that he was growing up. And this made the butterfly proud.

But, when the butterfly’s wings eventually did get tired, he settled down on a flower, close to Mother Earth, and drank nectar. And she was always there to comfort him, just as she promised.

One day as he rested he said, "Mother, I miss you when I am flying with father. And I feel that you miss me."

"Yes, I do," Mother Earth said softly.

"Then why is it like that? Why can't you be with me always?"

"We started as one," she replied. "But now you are separate from me and you have your own path to follow. You will find your own way. Father Sky is doing his best to help you."

The soft sound of his mother’s reply left a hole in the butterfly’s tummy. Then he said, "It is good, at least, to have someone else safe to explore with."

"That is Father Sky's gift to you," said Mother Earth.

The butterfly leaped and caught a breeze sent down by Father Sky. "Thank you, Mother!" he yelled as he fluttered high overhead.

Mother Earth spun as she should in her orbit around the sun, and the moon in turn kept its monthly schedule with her.

The Past is Passed

2010-10-19T09:30:00.000-07:00

Or is it? It seems to be catching up, at the least.

Why do the words “past” and “passed” refuse to follow clear and simple rules regarding how I use them. I know there ARE such rules. I just don’t manage to follow them. In the heat of chasing my muse through a scene, working at the speed of creative thought, I invariably spew the wrong form. It is passed time I figured this out.

Damn. Is that right or not?

I finally came to grips with all the thiers out there. They’re tough to control, but I manage. The past, however, is passed my control (phew!). Not that I get it wrong every time. That would be simpler. I could just do a quick find/replace now and then.

I blame a shoddy past education – I have no idea how I passed. That’s right, I’m playing the victim card. I was reading before I entered kindergarten (not Keats, but I could “sound it out”). Anyway, I show up to school and they don’t move passed (I’m on a roll – or is that role?) what the letters sound like until half way through first grade. I tuned out. Neural pathways shut down like a decommissioned atomic energy plant.

The next thing I know, that’s all in the past (I’m practicing) and my parents are yelling at me for not paying attention in class. The curriculum has moved on by fourth grade and I could actually learn something if I picked up my head and looked around once in a while – maybe did some homework.

Who knew they would eventually get to new material? They should put up a notice. “Starting next week we will be presenting material not commonly found on the back of serial boxes.” (Sorry – that on makes me laugh.) Better yet, post the topics so kids can plan their day. Maybe, if they knew that History would not be another sanitized outline of the pilgrim experience for the third straight year, they might skip that second Ding Dong during lunch so they don’t crash and burn when the sugar wears off.

At any rate, I’m guessing some teacher in second or third grade explained this passed/past thing and I missed it. Now, I have to rely on the kindness of strangers who haunt the internet. Thanks, all you grammar and spelling ninjas out their!

Oops.

Barbie's Revenge

2010-10-18T10:16:00.000-07:00

(Blogger's Note: Third in the Stories Unchained series. This one started life as a short story, a spooky little tale. Enjoy.)

My brother is addicted to torturing my Barbies. He can’t get past a Saturday without pulling off plastic arms, duct-taping her tiny mouth, and hanging her upside down in the fridge with a note pinned to her tennis skirt saying, “You’re next!”

This is sad, considering he’s thirteen years old. I’m eleven, and a girl, but it would be safe to say that he plays with Barbie way more than I do. I haven’t touched them in, like, years. I’m sure he does it just to tweak me.

Mom and Dad call him Jimmy. I call him Dirt-face. I would call him worse, but I hate the taste of soap. My Mom is old fashioned that way.

Of course, the refrigerator incident is only one example. Today, I came into the kitchen and heard bizarre noises just as I saw Dirt-face ducking out the back door. I ran over and looked in the sink where the noise came from. The garbage disposal was running and Barbie’s legs were sticking out, zipping around like she was possessed by an upside down Flamenco dancer. I turned off the disposal and tugged at her. Barbie’s head popped off and I ended up with the rest. Her shoulders looked like she had been through a shark attack. I peeked into the sink. Her hair was wet and tangled with bits of eggshell in it.

So, our garbage disposal is clogged with a supermodel’s noodle, and I’m down one more Barbie. “DIRT-FACE!” I yell. “MOM IS GOING TO KILL YOU!”

Sad to say, Mother does not actually execute him. Sure, Dirt-face has to fix the disposal, but I think he likes doing that. When he gets the head out, he acts like he discovered the hope diamond – he wants to hang it from his ceiling. I get Mom to make him give it back, not that I want a lacerated beauty queen skull. I just don’t want to find it in my slipper some morning covered with catsup.

“Why do you put up with him?” asks my best friend, Wendy, that night. Wendy has twin younger brothers that fear her. We’re slumped on the floor of my room, trading wrist bands.

“Dirt-face is too big,” I tell her. “I can’t just knock him around, like you do with Jake and Jack.”

“Oh, I don’t just knock them around,” Wendy puts on a chilling grin. “I make them quake with every breath I take.”

“Handy,” I say. “Can we get back to me now?”

“You don’t get it,” she says. “It isn’t about physical pain. The Twin Termites are small, but they’re agile and wiry. I couldn’t win if they organized and attacked. I own them because I’ve spent years getting inside their pointy little heads. They fear me. You need to make Dirt-face fear you.”

I sit up straight. “Like how?”

Wendy thinks for a sec. “Do you still have all the Barbies he ever mangled?”

I nod. “I’m saving them to show to his girlfriend, if he ever gets one.”

“Good plan, but we can do more…”

I’m all ears.

~ ~ ~

The week slogs on to Friday afternoon. Dirt-face gets home from school after me. I’m sitting on the couch with the water works going. I’m crying real hard, sobbing into my hands until the tears drip between my fingers. I learned how to cry from zero to sixty in under two seconds just to get Dirt-face in trouble. But this time I should get an Oscar. Even Dirt-face is starting to buy it.

“What’s your problem, Slug?” he asks.

So much for Mr. Sensitive.

I shoo him away with one hand and cry harder. He shrugs and starts to leave. DARN! I’m thinking. What if he’s too much of a jerk to take the bait?

But he turns before heading up the stairs.

Yes!

I gulp and catch my breath. Dirt-face sits down next to me. I almost feel guilty for what I’m about to do. Almost. “It’s your turtle, Rafael,” I manage to gasp. “When I got home he…” I break down. “His shell! The pieces! Oh my GOD!”

Dirt-face leaps up to his room.

Moments later he comes back down. He’s holding a tiny high heel shoe, something from the Malibu collection. Wendy and I planted it in the tank when she snatched the turtle. “What did you do?” he snarls at me. “Where is Raffy!”

I point to a wet spot on the floor. “He was… And then… So many pieces!” I gasp.

“What happened!” He’s freaked now.

“They’re mad, Jimmy.” I growl. I look him in the eyes, and manage to not laugh. “They’re mad, and they want… revenge!”

Dirt-face backs up a few paces. My using his real name unhinges him from reality. “Who?” he asks in a small voice.

I let him stew for a few heartbeats, then I say. “The Barbies, Jimmy. They have… come to life!”

He let’s that sink in, then he says, “Very funny, Slug. Give back Raffy!”

I cry again.

“Where is he?” I savor the edge of panic in his voice.

I point to the back yard, still crying.

Dirt-face dashes out and stops at a mound near the lilac bush. There’s a turtle shell set up like a headstone (I bought it at a gift shop). The dirt was packed by little Barbie feet. You can see the prints. “Raffy?” he gasps.

Clinging to branches high up in the lilac bush are dozens of mutilated Barbies. They smile down at his misery.

Wendy did a great job on that grave sight! It’s even giving me the creeps.

~ ~ ~

I giggle and snap my phone open. “Dirt-face is on his knees in the yard, too afraid to dig up the grave,” I tell Wendy. “He keeps looking at the lilac bush, where the Barbies are, like he’s hearing things.”

“Barbies in the bush? Nice touch!” says Wendy.

“Yes it is,” I say. “You’ve got him twitching. So stop bragging and bring back Raffy. I think we got Dirt-face good enough.”

“Sure,” she says. “But I didn’t put the Barbies in the bush. I left them…”

“Of course you did!”

There’s a pause on the other end. “We’re supposed to be freaking out your brother, remember? Not me,” she says. I’m beginning to see how Wendy keeps her kid brothers in line. But I’m not going to let her get inside my head.

“Fine. Whatever,” I say. “They climbed up their on their own. Just bring back the stinking turtle.”

“Fine,” she says, and hangs up.

I turn to see Dirt-face groping his way back into the house, backwards. He’s shaking and looking at the fake grave. I peer around him. Most of the Barbies are still in the bush, but some are lower down. The one missing a right arm and a left leg (Lawnmower Barbie), stands on the grave. She’s wearing a pink leotard, and one leg warmer. She supports herself on a crutch made from a twig. What is left of her hair sticks out like she’s deranged. She looks… aggressive.

Dirt-face is pale. “BOO!” I shout in his ear.

“AAAAGH!” he yells, falls backwards over a stepstool and hits the floor hard. He keeps his eyes on the back yard.

I laugh down at him. This has worked better than I had hoped.

“AAAAGH!” he yells again and zips up the stairs.

I chuckle, satisfied. An echo of my laugh catches my attention. A lot of tiny, silvery giggles. Echoes can be funny. But I never heard one back there before. I look outside.

Lawnmower Barbie is standing her ground, but now there are two more behind her. Did they fall from the bush? Somehow, they landed on their feet, facing the house. One is Garbage Disposal Barbie, holding her head under one arm. Other than the head, she’s naked. The other is Baseball Bat Barbie, dented and cracked. She’s wearing a yellow sundress and heels.

“Freaky!” I go out, collect them, and put them all back in their lidless shoebox. The shoebox slides into my closet, on the floor. My skin prickles. It feels like they are looking at me while I’m putting them away.

~ ~ ~

That night, Raffy is back in Dirt-face’s tender care. Dirt-face cries and kisses that turtle as if he has actual feelings. He even forgets to be mad at me, for the moment.

I wish I had a lock on my room. Payback is probably going to be ugly.

I dive into bed to read but can’t concentrate. Finally, I put down my book, click off my light, and try to fall asleep. I hear something creak in the dark. My closet door swings open an inch.

“Get out, Dirt-face,” I growl. I peek over my blanket. “Go on, or I’m calling Dad.”

A minuscule hand reaches out. It pushes the door another half inch. A small tuft of blonde hair follows, about seven inches off the ground. Then comes the trademarked white-lady face. Barbie.

“Knock it off!” I’m almost yelling ‘cause he is doing a great job of moving that doll around from inside the closet to make it look like it’s alive.

Barbie raises a hand and says, “Shhhhh.”

“Enough!” I jump from bed and fling open the closet door.

A swarm of plastic dolls scuttle around me, headed for the hall door. They climb over my feet with their tiny hands and pointed toes. They brush past my legs. One of them swings out of the closet on the belt from my robe like a girly Tarzan.

Normally, I can scream like a stupid teenager in a slasher movie. I mean I can hit high notes that hang and vibrate your ears long after I stop for a breath. Just show me a cockroach and stand back. And that is what the Barbie swarm reminds me of. Like roaches, they flow from the shoebox in my closet and out into my room.

I take a deep breath and let it out. I mean to scream, but nothing comes out except air! Nobody heard that – nobody is coming to save me. I freeze. Now I can’t breathe in! The dolls scuttle toward the hall door, limping and leaping. I feel dizzy. No air! Spots swim before my eyes. I fall to my knees. One of the dolls runs back to me. I cringe back into the closet.

“Quiet, silly!” she says in a tiny, voice. Her little plastic lips move! She’s wearing the same shredded wedding gown she had on when she was mauled by the neighbors pit-bull. It smells like dog spit.

She giggles and skips after the others.

In a few minutes I hear a thump from my brother’s room.

Do I dare move out of that closet? I am still short of breath. I hear something moving right next to me. I look to my right.

“Over here, goofy!” snaps a tiny voice on my left. I zip my face to the left. In the shoebox on my left is the top half of a Barbie. She’s calling to her legs, which are bumping into the wall on the other side of me.

I decide that now is the time to leave my closet. Quickly. My robe grabs me as I bolt. I smack myself down. The robe goes flying. Barbie parts might be crawling all over me!

I’m breathing now – deep and fast. And my heart is throbbing in my ears.

Dirt-face moans from the next room.

“Keep him quiet!” snaps a tiny voice.

There’s another thud, and then silence.

“Jimmy!” I gasp and run to his room.

His door is open. Jimmy is on the floor in sweat pants and a Detroit Redwings jersey (pajamas aren’t manly enough I guess). He’s wrapped up tight in kite string from head to toe. Under him is a platoon of deformed Barbies hoisting his prone bulk and shoving him, inch by inch, toward a whirring fan.

Garbage Disposal Barbie is swinging her head by the hair, banging it against the catch for the fan’s safety cage – that wire thing that keeps kids from cutting their fingers off. “Open!” CLANK! “Up!” CLANK! “Latch-thingy!” CLANK!

The latch opens and the cage falls away.

“WEEEE!” she screams, swinging her head around like a cheerleader’s pompon.

Dog-mauled Bride Barbie stands near Jimmy’s head holding an empty coke bottle like it’s a bat. Jimmy has a red spot just above his left eye. He’s out cold.

Magnifying Glass Melted Barbie stuffs a dirty sock into Jimmy’s drooling mouth and Baseball Bat Barbie ties it into place with more kite string. They move fast and work well together. Athletic little devils.

Tennis skirt wearing, refrigerator Barbie stands on Jimmy’s chest. She’s also wearing GI Joe’s fatigue shirt. It hangs loose where she doesn’t have arms and it’s too big for her. Maybe she’s cold. “Keep him moving, ladies!” she trills. “Heave! Ho!… Heave! Ho!…”

Inch by inch Jimmy’s hair gets closer to that fan. It’s in reverse, so it’s sucking his hair in. The Barbies make cute little grunt noises every time they “ho” and scoot him along.

Jimmy wakes up. He squirms and moans. He can’t move much. Jimmy yells into the sock. It’s so faint I can barely hear him over the fan.

“It’s payback time, Dirt-face!” snarls refrigerator Barbie. She bends over and smiles down at him.

“That’s enough!” I shout.

“Shhhhh!” says Dog-mauled bride Barbie. “Don’t wake your parents.”

“No!” I say. “You be quiet! I know he’s a jerk, and a weasel, and a pig…”

Dirt-face tries to say, “Hey!” through his gag.

“But I’m not going to let you feed my brother to the fan!”

The Barbies grow quiet. They look up at refrigerator Barbie. She seems to be the leader.

Are they going to defy me? Am I next? Refrigerator Barbie walks down Jimmy’s chest and jumps to the floor. She walks toward me, her plastic feet clicking on the floor. I gulp. I step back.

“Please?” she begs. “Just his hair?” They all turn and look up at me. Garbage disposal Barbie holds up her head and cocks it to one side, looking at me like a hopeful puppy.

I really look at them for the first time in years. How maimed they are. Some of them are unrecognizable. Most have missing limbs. Magnifying Glass Barbie had tried to reconstruct her face with finger paints. It’s a molten mess. She is in need of a serious makeover.

Jimmy is shaking his head “no” at me, wide eyed.

“Okay,” I say. “Just his hair. But then, back in your shoebox.”

“Yes Miss!” says refrigerator Barbie, and she gives me a neat click of her heels (she has no arms to salute with). She turns back to her troops. “You heard the boss! Heave! Ho!”

I turn and walk back to bed while Jimmy screams into his smelly sock.

The Barbies “heave” and “ho” and giggle. Jimmy screams some more, but it isn’t loud. Nothing I can’t sleep through. In the end, the fan only yanks out a few silver dollar-sized patches of hair before it clogs up and stops.

Later that night, the Barbies straggle back to my room. I wake up to giggling and a morbid cheer.

2 – 4 – 6 – 8!
Fans pull hair out really great!
3 – 5 – 7 – 9!
Dirt-face better toe the line!

I roll over and go to sleep.

So Mad!

2010-10-15T09:09:00.001-07:00

(Blogger’s Note: Second in the Stories Unchained series. You may notice a tendency toward alliterative names and humanized animals in this story and the first. I outgrow them eventually. Although I’ve added some descriptive text that would normally not appear in a picture book (something I’m doing to all of these as they become short stories), it remains a snippet of a significant interaction between parent and child. Not an edgy, loud story by any means, but filled with life energy. As for the inconsistent rhyming… I decided to not resolve that situation in this publishing. I like it, and I like that it doesn’t go overboard. And yet, I’m guessing it breaks rules with its casual approach to meter and occasional application. So be it.)

“Sometimes, I get so mad!” squeaked Minerva Mouse to Mama. “Anger bubbles up! It leaks! It jumps!”

Mama settled into a chair big enough for two. Minerva clambered up beside her.

“And what then?” Minerva threw up her paws. “The anger is so big and strong and scary that it could do most anything. Why, it could probably swallow the cat!”

Miss Muffin, spying at the mouse hole, twitched her long tail in astonishment.

“And when my anger gets out of control it won’t stop there. Oh no! The ground shakes! Stars fall from the sky! Trees lift up their roots so they won’t trip on them as they run and hide!”

Miss Muffin’s claws lifted curls of wood shavings as she dug into the floor – on the run.

“And sometimes that anger… it does terrible things.” Minerva scowled so hard that the room darkened. “I fear to recall a certain vase in a certain hall that met with my anger when it threw a ball. I believe there is still a piece hidden down by the wall.”

Mama remained silent.

“So… if you see my eyes turning red… if you see steam rising from my head… please remember that my anger is big and let me breathe. If I have half a chance, I’ll blast that anger out. It may take all day, but I’ll find a way.”

“I know you will.” said Mama Mouse. “And I know you try.”

Piccolo and Papa

2010-10-14T09:22:00.000-07:00

Blogger's Note: First in the Stories Unchained series.)

Piccolo Pig had two problems. One: her papa’s snores had gone on quite long enough, thank you. And two: she wanted to hear a story. His side of a particular story, actually.

She settled on a plan.

Two of her dolls became embroiled in a heated debate. Nurse Doll accused the spotted cow of stealing her cap. Miss Cow denied the charge. Miss Cow maintained that the cap was hers. It looked fetching, slung carelessly over her right ear.

“YES, you did so take it from me, Miss Cow! It’s my best white cap with the brightest red cross on it. Give it back, you smelly brute!” Nurse Doll was fit to be tied.

“MOO!” shouted Miss Cow.

Papa stirred and snuggled deeper into his overstuffed chair.

Piccolo scooted on her bum, a little closer to Papa.

“OH!” Nurse Doll squealed. “Now you've leaked slobber all over my clean white uniform! And is that milk on my shoe? OH! You.. you… BEAST!”

“MOO!” bellowed Miss Cow.

Papa grunted and stirred. He looked around like someone who had lost his way. “Moo?” he asked in a gruff whisper.

Piccolo Pig decided Nurse Doll and Miss Cow could work out their own differences. She pitched them under a table and stood by Papa’s knee.

“What is it, my precocious Piccolo?”

“How did you and Mama meet?”

“How did we meet? Now, let me think.” Papa scratched his bristled chin with a trotter. It sounded like wood being sanded. His voice began as a low rumble, then rose in volume as he spoke. “It was a cold and gloomy night destined for magic, swept with lashing snow and mysterious changing winds!”

“Mama says it was a sunny afternoon in August.”

Papa blinked. “She did? Oh. Why, yes, so it was. A scorching sun blazed down upon the barren desert! I topped a dune riding my faithful camel, Jasper. From hence, I spied a fainted maiden, languishing in the cruel sands…”

“Mama says it was that little beach down by Miller’s pond.”

“Miller’s pond?” Papa snorted as if he had never heard of the place.

“Down the block, Papa, behind the general store.”

Papa’s chin bristled more than usual. “Well… of course it was.” He squinted and tapped a trotter for a moment. “I can see it now!” His eyes flashed as he framed the image with one foreleg. “She was surrounded by a gang of villainous swine intent on doing her harm!”

“Her suitors?”

“Who?”

“Mama says there were a few of her old boyfriends hanging around.”

“She told you THAT, did she?”

“Uh-huh.”

Papa sighed. “All right then. Suitors. Why not? She was a fatal beauty, after all.” Piccolo watched her papa crank himself up once more. “And I was the steel-eyed guardian and protector of all such lovelies on the beach!”

“Do ice cream vendors do that sort of thing, Papa?”

“She told you about my summer job?” Papa sighed.

“Yep.”

“And the… paper hat?”

Piccolo nodded.

“With the pink ice cream cone on top?” he asked, his ears wilting.

“Yes Papa,” Piccolo giggled.

Papa fell silent.

“She said you were very handsome.”

“Did she?”

“She said she fell in love when you gave her a Fruity Swirl popsicle.”

“Oh… yes…”

“She said you are the kindest, gentlest soul she ever met.”

“Really? Well!” Papa sniffed. “Mama has always been a very good judge of character.”

Piccolo hugged Papa. “I love you Papa.”

“And your papa loves you.”

THE END

Coming Soon: Stories Unchained!

2010-10-13T08:50:00.000-07:00

(Blogger’s Note: This is not a response to the NYT’s ridiculous article suggesting kids could skip picture books and move right into easy readers. The very idea is silly and already refuted well enough elsewhere.)

Long ago and far away, I first twitched my fingers over the keys and challenged myself to take writing seriously. Almost overnight I burped up a variety of manuscripts including some rather lengthy picture books. 1,800 plus words, some of them.

Yes. I know. Many were given a swift and merciful death. Others grew on me like flat nosed puppies – so ugly they were cute.

This was BR (Before Research). Now I know that publishers favor tiny word counts in picture books – if they want them at all. When my kids were young, they liked the verbose picture books we had around the house – the Brambly Hedge series, Saint George and the Dragon, and The Quiltmaker's Gift for example. Glorious books. These are enchanting, complex creations and I longed to weave stories that inspired such illustrations.

Drafting and revising in short form was a good learning experience for me. I listened to critique partners and improved as I went, concentrating on character development, story arch, conflict, trimming words, and so on. Eventually, as the spirit moved me, I turned to middle grade and young adult novels. These formats felt more natural to me as a writer. I began learning all over again and continue to this day.

And yet my old picture book manuscripts, gathering virtual dust, call to me. I feel bad for them. Fortunately, one series has been taken up by a friend of mine, a professional illustrator. He showed me some paintings and the clouds parted! It was like he read my mind – he saw the scenes that I saw only with his soul in there too. I know your chances are better if you approach a publisher without illustrations unless you ARE the illustrator, but there you have it. The two of us are collaborating on a labor of love and it will take us where it will.

But what of these other picture books? I was clicking through them the other day and came to the conclusion that I will never submit them to traditional publishing. They languish, imprisoned.

How can I set them free? Blog posts! I’ve seen it done by others. Why not? I’m tweaking them now, rewriting them as short stories instead of picture books, and I’m falling in love with them all over again. I can’t let them die on the hard drive. Instead, I’ll publish them here. Maybe one of them will tickle someone out there – provide a moment of joy or whimsy.

At least the stories will be unchained.

WARNING: Contents Under Pressure

2010-10-12T08:17:00.000-07:00

You know what I find disheartening? I know people who are better at writing than I am. I don’t mean the Real Authors who give speeches at conferences. Nor do I mean those online acquaintances who provide valued insight and feedback in forums. I’m talking about jamokes from college and old work buds. I’ve seen their writing and some of it is better than the level I’ve managed to attain.

Depressing. (I feel like Marvin the Paranoid Android from The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy right about now.)

What are the odds that I would personally know a better writer than myself if I’m all that and a bag of royalties? It takes a lot to stand out in the publishing biz these days. Gaining an agent’s attention is equivalent to being noticed by an Olympic coach. The kids that get that far often wonder, “When did I last lose at full contact sled dog snorkeling?” (or whatever their sport might be). The big problem they have is keeping their egos in check, not being noticed.

I feel a little sympathy for the tool… er… writer who threw a book at the president by way of asking him to read it. As it turned out, the president didn’t even notice. Did you get that? Throwing your book at someone’s head isn’t a guarantee that they will notice it.

It’s a tough business.

Worse still? Some of those jamokes and work buds aren’t published either.

Of course, I could sing along with the unpublished masses. “I see books on shelves worse than what I write! How did this tripe make it to market?”

No I can’t. That’s too whiny even for me. Whatever has been published was published for a reason. Maybe the market was right. Maybe the agent and editors got such a good deal on crack that this book just slipped through. Whatever.

Do I keep writing? I hear you out there… “Don’t be part of the slush pile noise! Take up knitting!” But one of the benefits to being as dense as I am is not knowing when to quit. So, I keep writing.

Besides, I already tried knitting. It didn’t stick. Instead, I wrote about the experience. Do you know any agents in the market for a knitting story? I can rework it. Make it more edgy – YA even – with vampires! I’ll spell check it and add some kind of plot and conflict! DON’T MAKE ME THROW THIS MANUSCRIPT AT YOUR HEAD!

The Fences Between Us

2010-10-11T08:48:00.000-07:00

Dear Kirby Larson;

Please stop making me look like a sensitive wuss on public transportation. I just finished reading The Fences Between Us (The Diary of Piper Davis), and I had a rough time making it through most diary entries with dry eyes. Once I was done I let my daughter pry the book from my fingers so she could have a turn.

Following her Newberry award winning success writing a story about a young girl’s experiences during WWI (Hattie Big Sky) Larson set this new book in Seattle during WWII. As is her practice, it is meticulously researched and her characters jump into your life. Young Piper is the daughter of a preacher who works for a Japanese congregation. Her brother has enlisted and is at Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941. You can see the pickle she’s in already. And all based on a true story.

Things build when her father decides to follow his congregation after they get relocated. Larson takes you there from young Piper’s point of view as she writes in her diary. Piper is younger than Hattie, and not striking out on her own, but she still faces remarkable struggles.

As a piece of historical fiction, The Fences Between Us goes beyond the important focus on the internment of Japanese Americans to also include a good taste of what it meant to other Americans to sacrifice in a time of war – a strange notion for us today as we are told to spend our economy into a healthier position even as we continue to be engaged in two long struggles.

One of the little details Larson put into the book that hit me was when Piper was worried that John, a sailor back from the fighting minus one arm might have a hard time attracting the girl he fancied. Her father told her, “…everybody’s missing something – a knack for numbers or remembering names or even patience. ‘John’s no different than the rest of us except for the fact that he can’t hide what he’s missing.’”

I expect my eleven-year old daughter and I will have some enlightening discussions once she finishes reading. This is the sort of book that leaves you chewing on the subject matter long after you reluctantly close the back cover.

Bang!

2010-10-10T13:09:00.000-07:00

Friday night found me at the “palooza of percussion” also billed as “an all star concert featuring Japanese Taiko by Kaoru Watanabe and the legendary Kenny Endo, with Asako & Ringtaro Tateishi; Senegalese Sabar by Thione Diop and Yeke Yeke; and Indian tabla by Samir Chatterjee, an internationally-acclaimed virtuoso and noted historian of Indian music.”

I have taken up drumming for ceremony in a Native American context and it was beyond thrilling to see the ceremonial aspects played out from the perspectives of different cultures. That is the dry way of saying, I just wanna bang on da drum all day.

Or, as a fellow drummer put it, “I bang the drum, you shake your booty!”

A quick Google on drumming turned up this perspective…

“Drumming is an occult practice used in pagan rituals. Designed to connect people with earth spirits and other demonic forces. Such circles are associated with witchcraft and shamanism. Put simply, this practice is not Christian.”

I bet J.C. wouldn’t have minded if someone pulled out the toms while he was multiplying fishes and loaves. Sounds like just the time to get a good beat going if you ask me.

The African drummers called in the four directions plus the as above and so below (heavens and earth) just like the Native American circles do. As they did this, the power of their intent was palpable. They created a ceremonial container for the entire audience and show.

At the end of the concert, all musicians played together. Their stage presence and styles were very different, and I doubt they all spoke the same language, but there was never a dropped beat. They built in each group, one at a time, then they let solos sweep over the stage as each group became the lead in turn, and finally built to a chest vibrating crescendo and BAM BANG BANG BAM. Full stop.

Silence.

And the crowd jumped. It was one of those group-as-one moments. I can still feel the applause that we washed over those drummers.

My mother was Native American by blood only – not culturally. She told a story of being an infant in her grandmother’s care in the back woods of Alabama while her parents went to work in a cotton mill. The grandmother took her to a field that looked just like any other, but her grandmother knew where to dig. She placed my mother on a blanket, and she dug. Soon, she found pots, arrow heads, knives and skulls. These she placed by my mother and told her to rub the dirt off. In the afternoon, they took these down to the big road and sold them to rich white people.

Grave robbing.

My mother told me that story in a monotone when I asked about our Native American background and finished with, “I never did like that old woman.”

Beyond that disconnect, I look more like my Norse grandmother from my father’s side than anyone from my mother’s side. Another blue eyed Indian.

Still, a twisted hairs lineage out here has a need for drummers. They reach out to other people and share the various teachings that they have pulled together (like twisting hairs together to make a stronger cord). So, I drum with them. The slanted Christian perspective quoted above did get some points right. It does, “connect people with earth spirits and other demonic forces.” Maybe I take exception to the word demonic, but I’ll own up to the rest. Natural forces would be more accurate.

As the Go-Gos put it…

Musical Expression

2010-10-07T14:57:00.000-07:00

I grew up in the generation that watched Jimmy Hendrix dry-hump his guitar, so I probably don’t have a strong position to start from, here. I mean, a boomer whining about the music these days? Saying it’s too far out there?

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not talking about the kind of stuff that gets loaded onto iPods and MP3 players to the point that the artists collect trophies. All that stuff is formulaic enough. Actually, they could learn some lessons about how to push some envelopes.

I’m talking about a chamber music concert I went to recently expecting to hear sedate, dry, coma-inducing chamber music. My expectations were predicated on the types of instruments and the setting – a converted church hosting a few strings and reed instruments. Silly me. To be honest, I am delighted that I was shocked and offended. At least it was interesting.

I will not name the musicians because I don’t want my layman’s ramblings to color their reputations in a Google search. They are virtuosos – some of the best at what they do. It was an honor to sit there and have my hearing range tested.

They played pieces of their own design, some of which were heard for the first time ever. One artist said that he was playing a piece for the second time ever and was stunned he had the opportunity to play it again. I appreciate his honesty.

Several of the pieces played could have been grouped under the title “B Movie Space Ships from the Planet Whatthefuck.” Another screamed to be called “Arabian Shit Storm,” or A.S.S. for short. These songs challenged my notions of harmony, tempo, melody and what sounds I could reasonably expect to be produced by a chamber music instrument.

I guess I’m saying that these maestros were playing well over the bar I had set for where experimental music ends and noise begins. They had their own bar… or maybe they had used vibrations to completely shatter the very idea of having a bar.

At any rate, I’m glad I was there. We should all do something now and then to shake ourselves out of our comfortable dreams that the world is a certain way. I’m glad artists take seriously their job to see that we have the opportunity to do just that.

Man is the only animal...

2010-10-06T08:56:00.000-07:00

Man is the only animal whose desires increase as they are fed; the only animal that is never satisfied.
~ Henry George US economist (1839 - 1897)

Man is the only animal for whom his own existence is a problem which he has to solve.
~ Erich Fromm

Man is the only animal that likes Tabasco sauce.
~ Yale psychologist Paul Bloom

Man is the only animal that laughs and weeps; for he is the only animal that is struck with the difference between what things are and what they ought to be.
~ William Hazlitt

Man is the only animal clever enough to build the Empire State Building and stupid enough to jump off it!
~ Unknown

Man is the only animal that can remain on friendly terms with the victims he intends to eat until he eats them.
~ Samuel Butler

Man is the only animal that deals in that atrocity of atrocities, War.
~ Mark Twain

Man is the only animal who has to be encouraged to live.
~ Friedrich Nietzsche

Man is the only animal to find pleasure in the pain of red hot chili peppers. Birds can’t taste them. Deer avoid them.
~ Unknown

Man is the only animal that blushes. Or needs to.
~ Mark Twain

Do be a Do Bee

2010-09-30T09:58:00.000-07:00

Hello. My name is Sam and I’m a boomer.

Hi Sam.

Thanks. Being at the near end of the baby boom gives me a different perspective than my older sisters who rode the crest of the wave through the ‘60s. I was born in 1959, making me just old enough to qualify. Still, I own my part – I’m not trying to weasel out of it.

I remember the original Bozo when he was still young. I also remember Romper Room, with Miss Sally if I recall (she was an early crush of mine). I stood and pledged to the flag as she required during every show. I didn’t want to be a Don’t Bee. Don’t Bees are scum. They drag the rest of us down with their Don’t ways. Bastards.

Amen, Sam.

Thanks again. But, I didn’t come to talk to boomers alone. I would like to address all the good people – the Do Bees out there of all ages, colors and sexual orientations.

The point I wanted to raise today is that it looks like the Don’t Bees are running the asylum. A recent study shows that Don’t Bees constitute a strong voter block not because they are many, but because they vote. There are still more Do Bees in the world than Don’t Bees, but we don’t do one of those things that Do Bees should be doing. We don’t get out and vote in numbers that show our power.

But we can change that, right? I know, you Do Bees got burned with the “C” word recently. “Change.” But what the hell did you expect? That Obama was going to raise his hands and the lobbyists would part like the red sea? You think two years is enough to change 200 years of established system?

I thought Do Bees were made of sterner, more far-sighted stuff! So I say, GET OFF YOUR STINGERS DO BEES! SHOW SOME GRIT! Don’t like your choices? So, vote for the best you have on hand this time around and try again next time. Keep voting each and every time, even the primaries. If the 80% that Jon Stewart talks about got to the polls every stinking time, we wouldn’t be in this mess right now!

So VOTE, please…

Miss Sally would be proud of you.

R.I.P. Junk Food Tom

2010-09-27T08:54:00.000-07:00

This past weekend, our good friend and family tomcat, Thomas passed on. It was sudden, brought on by one of Thomas’ frequent adventures. The best we can determine is, he got himself stuck somewhere by his head and maybe a paw. In getting free, he suffered a great deal of internal bleeding. We thank him for coming home to die rather than being lost to us.

He was a tomcat. Despite being neutered, he was the most masculine being I have ever met. I have to assume that now he will go back to his natural form of mountain lion. It would have been a disservice to his nature to keep such an animal inside. For those who say you should keep your cats indoors, I say, don’t get a tomcat. You might as well kill them yourself.

He loved his life, and his family. His absence leaves a hole in our home that will not be filled. Even his enemies, the rats and crows seem to be paying a salute to his passing.

Seeds Grow into Things Unlike Themselves

2010-09-13T09:01:00.000-07:00

From the age of ten or so, I knew there was a story behind the old Victorian mansion I grew up playing in, and I planned to write it. As an adult, I’m living out that desire (one of several manuscripts in progress). And yes, I’m writing what I know when I describe ghostly encounters in the old place.

The trouble I had starting out was I was so in love with the setting that I subconsciously made the main character a sidekick to the mansion itself. The experiences the character goes through were vivid and exciting, but the entire thing was off balance. It wasn’t working. There is probably a way to make the mansion as MC work, but that isn’t the direction I wanted to take.

The setting was just the seed. I had confused the seed of my story with the heart of the evolved, mature story. There isn’t a tree, bush or blade of grass out there that resembles the seed it grew from to any large extent. When I look at an oak tree, I don’t see the essence of an acorn. The tree itself is the heart of the matter. The seed just got things started.

Once I realized that, thousands of faults in my current MS became obvious to me, as they must have been to the few places I had already submitted the story. How freaking embarrassing.

The upside is, as I begin this current rewrite, I am falling in love with the story all over again. The MC finally has a three dimensional form, a past and tangible desires and goals. I still twinge to see the seed element lose focus, but sometimes we have to cut and scrape at what we love most to come up with a better story. I can’t wait to churn through this draft with scissors, tape and maybe a few tears. Whatever it takes. The final story will be worth it.

What Form Rejection Means to Me

2010-07-23T09:09:00.000-07:00

Hello you neglected corpse of a blog. Today you may receive 2 or 3 hits from people looking for actual living content, so please CLEAR THOSE EMPTY JIM BEAM BOTTLES OFF OF THE F#@KING COFFEE TABLE! Le R HERSELF MAY EVEN STOP BY (so put out some fresh Makers Mark bottles)! ACT LIKE YOU’VE HAD COMPANY BEFORE!

Ahem… now on to the post.

Every time I send an email or (less frequently) a snail mail to an agent or publisher I am flooded by the same tingly feeling of hope I get while buying a lottery ticket.

After that, I wait. Fellow writers, you know what I mean. I wait wait wait wait waaaaaait…

At least the lottery is drawn every few days or so. I consider my age. How many submittals do I have time for before I die, I wonder? Depression sets in. I curl up on the floor and become a scratching post for the house felines, Junk Food Tom and Gigi the Destroyer. On good days, I work on an alternate manuscript.

And then, Glorious Day, a reply letter or email appears! REJOICE! We are to learn the direction of our fate! We have been singled out for communication and feedback from the magical world that is publishing! We have dropped into royal pronouns as if we are Le R!

I take a moment, breathing deep, connecting to my dreams, and I read.

“Dear alleged writer; (hmmmmm)

“Thank you for” blah blah… skim skim… “Unfortunatly” (OUCH there it is! I already know the rest by heart)

No point in reading more.

But I do. Oh, you know I do. I pour over every single word, syllable and punctuation until I wake up screaming them and my wife makes me go sleep in the office chair, using the tear smeared printout as a blanket.

Even with the forms that show proof of being a third generation copy of the original print out I search for evidence that the form was altered, adding a special message meant just for me. I extract deep meaning from the placement of a comma. I do all this knowing it is a simple form letter and that I am a twit.

I sigh… I twist the knife in my heart and cough blood. Then I staple the letter to the wall above my work station and make an entry in the spreadsheet where I track such things. Once I have the energy, I visit Verla Kay’s Blue Boards and publicly proclaim my failure under one of the “Response Times” threads.

Lastly, I revisit the manuscript in question. I pamper it and slap it in turns, sweating to shape it into something more worthy. (Interestingly enough, this is a process my wife has tried on me, to no avail.)

So, what do they mean to me? No big. Life goes on. Time to check that lottery ticket (not that winning would stop me from submitting again).

To Count Backwards, or to March Forward

2010-01-05T08:55:00.000-08:00

My initial reaction to my 51st birthday today was to step back. Time to be 49 again. I could bounce at 50 and fall back, perhaps bouncing again at 0 and live forever! A living perpetual motion machine. Why hadn’t anyone thought of this before? People always have to make immortality so complicated.

Then I began to run through all the drawbacks. For one thing, would I need to regress through the fashions as they existed during my life? And the times? Would I have to wear elephant bells and hear disco everywhere I went? Wait in long lines for gas? Where am I going to find a Farrah Fawcett calendar in a few decades? Speaking of which, do I REALLY want to go through adolescence again?

Okay. So, march forward it is. I am 51.

Now, what about traditions? Sure, there’s the cake and great food and the presents. All good. And kisses. Love the birthday kisses. But what are my personal traditions for this day? What have I done all along? Thinking back, I recall I spent my 1st birthday sucking on a bottle, napping and messing in my pants. While that might have been good enough to repeat for my 21st, I don’t think I want to repeat it for my 51st. Maybe I’ll save that one for my 101st.

I guess I’ll have to do the one thing that we should all do year after year. Change. Grow. Evolve. It gets hard sometimes, but it is easier than fighting the inevitable. I’ll jump into the stream and flow. Be part of the ever-changing Tao.

Jezz, I must be getting old if that makes sense to me.

Peace to You

2009-12-18T14:16:00.001-08:00

A ship’s compass, a windrose, identifies the source of directions as solar sky paths at four key dates: Spring Equinox, Summer Solstice, Fall Equinox and Winter Solstice. The windrose’s shape is echoed in sundials, stone medicine wheels, ceremonial containers woven from intent and Navajo wedding baskets woven from sumac. People all over the world have captured this pattern in many ways for many reasons.

Stones, stars, the directions, weavings, time – these speak to us out of the past. If you listen the words can be intuited; an alive spiritual communication.

How many times has the wheel turned – the sun aligning with the markings on the windrose and ceremonial containers? When will it end? What gateway experiences will happen along the way? How many times have people gathered for community, warmth and comfort on the longest night of the year? How often are they kept apart?

Blessings to you and yours. May your next trip around the sun be fruitful, enjoyable and peaceful.

The Accessibility of Our Heroes

2009-10-30T16:08:00.000-07:00

My wife and I take our income every month, sweep it together and dump it into a bucket labeled “Private School Tuition.” The bucket must be filled each month. If it isn’t, we have to go ask the bank to give us more income in the form of loans and we give that to the bucket as well. In exchange, the bank grows a little closer to owning our home outright. For all this, we end up with a rich educational experience for our kids.

We feel it has been worth it.

That’s the long way to saying our kids go to a private school. Today, I want to relay an insight I gained from interactions our kids have undergone while at school recently. It has to do with the accessibility of our heroes and what we will do for them depending on their level accessibility.

Our son recently played the role of St. Michael in a yearly pageant that depicts the slaying of a dragon and demonstrates bravery and determination overpowering fear and inaction. As the fall deepens, we face the encroaching darkness and hope for the winter. We reach down to our courage to go on. Blah blah blah.

Anyway, in years past, the kid that plays St. Michael was seen from the school roof, at a distance. We adults and kids, would form a circle around a performance involving villagers and a dragon which St. Michael kills, or helps the villagers banish, depending on how politically correct that year’s pageant is.

This year, the dragon wove directly into the crowd. Some kids ran for cover. Others stood their ground. But none could stop it until my son showed up in all his glory, armor gleaming, sword raised. He strode into the crowd and calmly and quickly dispatched the beast. It was merciful and swift.

He then stood and let his young admirers (first and second graders) feel his armor and lift his long sword. He was patient and balanced, taking all the time required for the little kids to process and experience the event.

Time passed. A week or more.

The kids were just kids again – first through eight grades all at one location. One of the eight graders called for the little ones to attack my son. The little one love to act as an invading horde or swarm, overpowering one slow upper grades-man they have separated from the pack. This kid was spurring them on.

But this new target was St. Michael, the accessible. St. Michael the available. He who had taken time to meet them when he was might. Did the pack of first and second graders attack my son as told? No. Instead they swarmed onto the hapless fool who had told them to attack their hero.

We will do a lot for someone who takes just a little time for us.

Take a little time for someone today, especially someone who cannot fend as well for themselves. It will pay you back somewhere along the road.

Sleep Deprivation (SD) vs Drugs

2009-04-07T10:22:00.000-07:00

SD is cheaper.

SD is legal.

SD can have many of the same side-effects as pot, Quaaludes and LSD.

SD does not have the same side-effects as the many forms of speed beyond the inevitable crash.

Olympic committees will not strip you of your medals should you be caught experiencing SD, nor will you be removed from cereal boxes.

Both contribute to mental and physical instability.

You should not operate heavy machinery under the influence of either.

Other than that, it’s a wash. Good night.

Warm Wishes

2008-12-11T14:18:00.000-08:00

At this time of year our home contains a spirit brought into existence through ritual. Many of the trappings and practices were first put into place thousands of years ago, in many corners of the world. The earth remembers these rituals and answers to them.

We invite representatives of nature into our home and give them places of honor. Wreaths herald the return of the sun – the distant king of our winter sky. The queen, the evergreen, is festooned with silver and gold. She perfumes the air with her dying breath - a sacrifice has been made as the old year dies away. A Yule log is sparked to remind us of the returning light.

Family and friends gather and exchange gifts to help each other through the cold months to come. Groups make a joyful noise to drive away evil and brighten the long night.

The very best of the season to all.

They’re taking away my polling place and all I got was this F-ing sticker!

2008-11-05T12:55:00.000-08:00

To H. E. double hockey moms who won the election. I am devastated that my kids will never generate the feelings that surged through me as I walked into the polling place, seeing my neighbors lined up and waiting to cast real votes, on the real day. I stood in the packed Northgate Community Center at 7AM on November 4th, and I was elated to be an American on that day, standing right where I was, breathing the air of hope that my vote would be counted. People from 18 to 96 years old were lined up waiting to vote, or actively voting, using every flat surface in the room. Tables, voting booths, laps, window ledges, floors, all came into play. A seductive orgy of democracy was beginning, and would continue for hours.

Voting has always been the first thing I do on Election Day. It is a ritual with ceremony, pungent with potent. It was bad enough when they outlawed serving beer near the polling places, but this goes well beyond that travesty. One may argue how well the election results turned out, but the extinction of the American Polling Booth is a shameful moment in our national history.

And now, corporations are giving away Election Day booby prizes. Coffee and donuts. Hold me back. Still no beer. And still not AT THE POLLING PLACE! This should be a 24-hour party, America! We should all get the day off from work, vote, and then dance in the streets until midnight! This should be like Mardi Gras for ugly people. In four years, I want to see designated ballet drop-off spots in every city and town across this great land where everyone gathers to vote, gets free tattoos, and their choice of red or blue died pints of Samuel Adams.

A regular guy turns 50

2008-08-06T14:56:00.000-07:00

I’m in a reflective mood today, and five months from turning 50. So, as a regular guy pushing 50, I thought I would capture a few observations. Not wisdom. Not advice. Just a few things I noticed about myself.

You know you’re pushing 50 when…
1. A book and early to bed sounds like a very tempting Friday night
2. Despite having enjoyed technology in the past, you have no regrets at not buying the next wave of gadgets to come along
3. You’re nearly caught up on reading all those fiction books they assigned in high school
4. You know better than to sit on a cold floor for more than five minutes at a time without getting up to stretch
5. Babies fussing in public make you smile rather than raise bile
6. You fight back the urge to preserve your parents in amber
7. You choose between chocolate or beer as equal but different joys, only wanting to indulge in one thing that will add to your gut
8. Ladies who happen to have dangling arm flesh can still be considered hot
9. The people who have recently outlived their pop-fame seem like minors to you
10. You find yourself making lists instead of having a life

Club House

2008-07-14T13:16:00.000-07:00

A while back, my kids and I started collecting scraps from construction and demolition sites. Our goal: a club house. Now we have a structure in the back yard with two real windows, a door with a glass pane and built in book shelves. The problem has been rain-proofing. You would think I would have considered that sooner, given that I live in Seattle!

Oh well.

So, starting this weekend, we broke down and bought tar paper and shingles. I put my son on the roof for 4 hours and he is nearly done. Now to the walls. It has been a rewarding experience, working with my kids to make something so tangible. They are already planning paint and drapes and sleepovers.

Maybe soon, I’ll get my first images on this blog – the club house near completion.

What do you let your kids watch?

2008-07-11T16:17:00.000-07:00

I mean, when is the right time to introduce your kids to the Texas Chainsaw Massacre? When do you move from Barney to Freddy? Of course, the answer depends kid-by-kid. In some cases, I’m chomping at the bit to lead my offspring to cultural context. I’m thinking Spinal Tap and Night of the Living Dead, here. But I’m also acutely aware that too much frenetic media has its down side.

We’re Waldorf parents, which means, officially, we’re practically Luddites. But, being a huge fan of anime, I have been unable to keep from showing my kids Kiki’s Delivery Service and Spirited Away.

But my son is pushing. He’s a great guy and is working with us. But if I can’t lay down a twelve page legal brief on the damage a particular movie might do to his forming mind, he’ll take me to small claims court in order to get the right to view it. I have great hopes for his future as a litigator.

So, what age do you associate with PG13? Do you look into WHY a movie has a rating? Will sexual content put you off more than violent content? Is there a “general mood” factor? Help me out people. I have some legal briefs to compile.

Happy Birthday

2008-07-11T14:57:00.000-07:00

If you were born on July 11, then you happen to share a birthday with this blog. W00t!

Sam Hranac

Bankrupt?

Peace to You

Manning the Door

9 October 1940 – 8 December 1980

My Daughter Caught me Reading

Happy Labor Day!

Open Letter to Anyone Moving to Seattle

Akira

Looking on the Bright Side

Poo Todd

It Bit Me

How Far Should One Go When Promoting Themselves?

Daughters, Pirates and Innocence; a Father’s Perspective

Why do I Torture Myself?

Surprises

Perspective

Tucson, My Hat is Off to You

Welcome Nate (waggle)

Mittens vs. the Toy Tree

Making the Must Read List Available

*FLICK*

It’s a MEEE-ray-cul

Simplicity

The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

This is It, People

Research Makes for a Better Story

Hold Me Closer, Necromancer

Demonkeeper

Vampire Books Worth a Smile

Chronicles of Vladimir Tod - final?

Paranormalcy

Mother Earth, Father Sky

The Past is Passed

Barbie's Revenge

So Mad!

Piccolo and Papa

Coming Soon: Stories Unchained!

WARNING: Contents Under Pressure

The Fences Between Us

Bang!

Musical Expression

Man is the only animal...

Do be a Do Bee

R.I.P. Junk Food Tom

Seeds Grow into Things Unlike Themselves

What Form Rejection Means to Me

To Count Backwards, or to March Forward

Peace to You

The Accessibility of Our Heroes

Sleep Deprivation (SD) vs Drugs

Warm Wishes

They’re taking away my polling place and all I got was this F-ing sticker!

A regular guy turns 50

Club House

What do you let your kids watch?

Happy Birthday

FLICK