Jesus Saved . . .So Should You

No I'm not making light of Jesus in my title, nor am I trying to piss off any non-Christians in the audience. Truth is I'm stealing a tag line I saw once that made a fairly compelling impression on me. I played lacrosse in college, a mid-fielder, which meant I ran a lot and every now and then got to shoot. There was this one goalie who had written prominently in tape on his helmet, "Jesus Saves . . . So Do I!"

During this month of NaNoWriMo I read a lot from my Facebook friends and others about their word counts and their stories coming together. Last night, while working on OneNote, an applicaiton that has the benefit of automatically saving everything you type at the time you type it, I lost a lot of work. I don't know if it was a slip of the finger or a mistake in terms of a command key, but all of a sudden Chapters 3 through 18 of my book disappeared completely. I hit Ctrl Z over and over hoping to bring it back but nothing worked.

Thankfully I had downloaded a copy to MS Word just a day prior so it wasn't a complete loss. I ended up losing just a few hundred to maybe thousand or so words, BUT it did make me wonder about what if I hadn't just downloaded that story to MS Word? I would have lost it all.

Save early and save often that should be your motto with writing. And if it helps think about what the goalie's helmet said. That's stuck with me for over 20 years now.

Another Quick Short Story

Time to post another short story. I started this little, now-blossoming tradition a few months (see here and here). So here's a snippet for one I wrote in 2010 and a link if you want to read more. Funny, but this isn't the final, this was the draft 1 final, but I changed the story to a different version. So I'll be interested in knowing if readers see a difference.

Seven Six Two Divorce

Servando sighted along the barrel of his Remington 700, then slowly peered through the powerful telescopic sight. He could see the small, red, front door of the condo across the street. Without hesitating he inserted a round into the chamber.  He noticed how the late afternoon sun glimmered off of the brass casing. This, he thought, was the part he had wondered about. The point where he placed the bullet into the rifle was to him, that point where he knew he was committing himself to the action. He knew that he would never see that bullet again. He would see the hollow, spent casing at the end of the evening, but the round would be buried in human flesh far beneath his hide position, hopefully followed by several others. He had chosen this round, as well as the rifle, his firing position, everything carefully and he was filled with both anxiety about his plan as well as excitement. He felt some degree of comfort in the motions he took and the equipment. He had used this weapon system before as a Sniper in the Marines, but when he was in the military they had called it an M24 and he had shot a 7.62 mm round. He would be using a much heavier caliber bullet for his work today and he frowned unhappily that this chore was being brought to his doorstep for this final conclusion.

The plan started truly taking shape once the alibi was in place. Servando had been dreaming of this night for several years. The plan had morphed and changed some, but always there was the problem of an alibi. It was Kier who ultimately had provided that final catalyst that kicked the plan into action.  Kier, Servando’s old friend from high school was flying up to Seattle on a flight using Servando’s ID, while Servando was flying up five hours later using Kier’s. They looked enough alike that it the plan was destined to work, and it gave Servando five hours within which to operate. Five hours to do what he wanted without the worry that the police would want to know his whereabouts. They would know his whereabouts and according to the airlines he would be two miles up, winging his way from Houston to Seattle. He worried whether or not he could trust Kier, but Kier accepted Servando need and not asked a single question about why. He was the one variable that was not completely in Servando’s control.

Servando tightened the tripod mount, focusing the rifle not on the door but where he expected his target to stand upon exiting. He calculated the distance at just under two hundred meters. It was an easy shot and he knew that he would have no trouble with it. The only problem would be that the target was moving. He had been adept at shooting far longer shots, with less favorable conditions, and with far poorer sights than the Leopold ten power scope that was currently mounted and zeroed onto his rifle. Despite the fact that the target would be moving, Servando felt confident he could take him down. His work zeroing in the rifle had also been conducted under an assumed name, using a license that he had moved heaven and earth to procure. But now, at four minutes to five o’clock, with only a few short minutes until the operation kicked off, all of the planning, the meticulous questioning, and delicate, almost military style maneuvering, had come together to find Servando looking down the barrel of his rifle waiting patiently for his father in law to exit the red door.

Servando thought about all of the preparation and planning that the last few weeks had included. Buying the rifle from an out of state dealer, fake email accounts, fake pay accounts, and worst of all the innumerable drives to the far side of town to use the internet at different seeding copy stores to ensure that each piece of the lethal puzzle he was assembling would be completely and wholly untraceable.

Servando snuggled in behind the stock of the M24 and felt the cool comfort of the composite stock against his cheek. He loosened the tripod and swiveled the weapon from the door to the intersection that was just a hundred meters further away. These shots would be more difficult, but Servando knew that by the time he had to make these shots, his accuracy would not be as important. These shots would not have to be perfect, just close enough to give Servando time. Just long enough to make his father-in-law, Jake, suffer.

Again, Servando swiveled the tripod around to focus on the door. The light was graying in the horizon and soon it would start to turn dark. It was during that transition from daylight to dark that he planned to strike. He remembered the many times he and his team in the Marines had taken advantage of dusk and dawn to begin raids or attacks, and the training he had perfected in the Marines would serve as the basis for what he considered the most secret and perhaps most important mission of his life.

Whenever Servando thought about his wedding he smiled. Both he and Cynthia had planned the wedding carefully and had not fallen victim to the whims and desires of their parents of friends. They had an eleven o’clock wedding followed by a jazz brunch reception where a trio of jazz instruments and a singer strolling the reception hall. The wedding was tailored around their own personalities and desires. They had met over brunch and enjoyed going out to eat in the mornings. Naturally they wanted to share that type of enjoyment with friends and family. Servando remembered how much he had enjoyed hearing Sinatra, Ella Fitzgerald, and Dean Martin songs echoing slowly through the reception area. He frowned as he thought of Jake, and how he had stood up and toasted the wedding and the marriage.

Feel like reading the rest? See it all HERE!

Dwarsliggers

“A book is proof that humans are capable of working magic,” the cosmologist Carl Sagan once said. “It’s a flat object made from a tree with flexible parts on which are imprinted lots of funny dark squiggles. But one glance at it and you’re inside the mind of another person, maybe somebody dead for thousands of years.”

This was an intriguing thing to read, and even more intriguing was the article that it preceded and the subject matter (see here). "Dwarsliggers" are apparently on the rise in the Netherlands. Tiny, pocket size books are going to be the next thing according to this article.

The name is interesting by itself and I wouldn't blame anyone if they thought I was re-cycling my post on strange fun words! (see HERE) That article that talked about words the English language should steal.

Personally, I see it nothing more than a novelty. I think it would be convenient to carry a smaller book, but would it be more convenient than an iPhone? Doubtful.

I can see where this might be a fun thing to have around the house. Imagine a whole book shelf of Dwarsliggers in your living room. But would they actually be read?

I find it interesting in terms of how we process information. When I got my MBA back in 2003 we discussed the changing nature of information processing on different generations. When I grew up sending a hand written thank you note through the mail was a normal and expected thing. My children who have not known a world without email will not see the post office or writing letters the same way. Soon, what hand written thank you's are to email, email will be to chat. The fact that these are printed in layout rather than portrait makes me wonder about that aspect of things.

Beyond that, nothing but a fad says I.

Second Book; First Line

I don't ever do this . . . read two books at once, but I have been lately.

When I was younger it was anathema for me to have anything else on my mind, much less be reading another book, while in the midst of reading one. But lately, when I go to sleep, I put the smart phone away, no Twitter, no Facebooks, no Blogs, no Kindle,  . . . nope, nothing but a good old fashioned book.

Sure I still have the Kindle book I'm reading, I just don't read it before going to sleep. For sleeping I read a real, page turning book.

Right now I'm reading Hampton Sides' "On Desperate Ground," (see here) a non-fiction account of the Korean War and the Marines at the Chosin Reservoir. The Korean War is easily one of my favorite conflicts, and Hampton Sides, writer of Ghost Soldiers as well, is one of my favorite non-fiction authors.

The first line, which I read before hitting the rack the other night, was:

In the misting rain, they pressed against the metal skins of their boats and peeked over the gunwales for a glimpse of the shores they were about to attack. Some thirteen thousand men of the First Marine Division, the spearhead of the invasion, had clambered down from the ships on swinging nets of rope and then had crammed themselves into a motley flotilla of craft that now wallowed and bobbed in the channel. Several of the rusty old hulks, having been commandeered from Japanese trawlermen, smelled of sour urine and rotten fish heads. The Marines, many of them green from seasickness, saw the outlines of the charred foothills that rose above the port, and caught the scent of the brackish marshes and the slime of the mudflats. Corsairs, bent-winged like swallows, dove over the city, dropping thousand-pound bombs and sending five-inch rockets deep into hillside nests where the enemy was said to be dug in. Far out at sea, the naval guns rained fire upon the city, damaging tanks of butane that now flared and belched palls of smoke.

On this warm, humid morning of September 15, 1950, the Marines had arrived at their destination halfway around the world, to stun their foe and turn the war around: a surprise amphibious attack, on an immense scale, deep behind the battle lines. Only a few months before, these young men, fresh from their farms and hick towns, had piled into chartered trains and clattered across America to California. Then they climbed aboard transport ships, where many of them did their basic training, learning how to strip and rebuild M1 rifles, drilling on the crowded decks, practicing their marksmanship on floating targets towed from the fantails. They crossed the Pacific and stopped briefly in Japan, then heaved their way through a full-scale typhoon. They rounded the peninsula and moved in convoy up the west coast, through the silted waters of the Yellow Sea.

Sides, Hampton - On Desperate Ground

That's a great opening right there. Who couldn't want but to read on!

Sunset Perfect

Isn't it funny the things we convince ourselves of over time and in life. And how wrong we realize we are when we look back.

I had a girlfriend once and we were sure we were in love with each other. Didn't last. No matter how hard we tried it just couldn't last. In her case it had the most to do with distance and space. Distance does NOT make the heart grow stronger, instead what I've found is that it undermines and degrades love unless one finds other ways to keep it strong.

Another girl, wasn't at love "love", has contacted me in the past bit. I was sure back when I dated her that she was the end all beat all for me. She was a sales girl for Hormel meat products and always drove around with a trunk full of meat to sell. What more could a starving, kid from the Army who never had money want than a girlfriend with ready access to great meat!

Now that she and I talk there is nothing there. It's like the pilot light just went out with her.

What's the point?

Things change. People change. Feelings change.

I think about something that my grandmother, Muzzie, once told me. She said that she thought her son, Richard, loved her, but that he didn't like her. How often has that been the case. I know it has been for me, and has been recently. Where I loved someone but I didn't necessarily like them. It's a tough feeling to have.

What's this have to do with writing?

I have a novel I'm currently working on called Sunset Perfect (great title right?). It's all about this. Loving someone but falling out of like with them. The title too is indicative of this difficulty. On the face of it the title sounds like a description of a perfect sunset, but the novel is about the challenges the two main characters face. That perfection has a sunset clause or an end. Toughest novel I've written, but I'm thinking that that fact, the fact that it's the toughest might make it worthwhile in the long run.

Stake Remains Grounded

A few weeks ago I put a stake in the ground (here) about how I was going to write. I said I was going to channel among others Frank Herbert and how he wrote Dune in small snatches while sitting in his car during his lunch hours. Although I haven't done that, I have tried to write more consistently rather than constantly (see my post on that here). And so far, I have to say it's been working.

In the past I was a huge advocate of NaNoWriMo. I was doing NaNo before it was cool. I think my first NaNo was way back in 2004. I've been a member of that community for 14 years (here). I've written alot about my NaNoWriMo writing (see here) and for the most part it's a great way to write. It's a brain dump where for a whole month you can write all you want, anything you want, with the goal of just getting it down.

I think I've changed in the past 14 years. I no longer enjoy that brain dump style of writing, but instead am really enjoying the slow, steady, turtle writing I'm engaged in now. In the past few weeks I've added to my Sunset Perfect novel by several thousand words, I've completed a short story that I've sent to my old friend Janice for an edit and review, and have pecked away at an older short story as well.

The stake in the ground in working, and it only emphasizes the changing nature of lifestyle and how we write. Best to keep up with those changes and roll with the punches.

The Business Side of Writing

My new friend, A. Piper Burgi (see here) has a great post about the business side of writing (see here).

This is an aspect that I NEVER focus on. I treat my writing as a hobby. It's something I do during my off hours. I don't sit down and grind it out on a daily basis and just fit it in when I can. Have I made some money on writing? I've gotten a royalty check or two from my three books (see here). But if I total up all my time spent and all that I've invested in writing, I'm certainly not in the black.

Many times I've thought about giving up the ole day to day grind of my job and trying to become a serious, professional writer. What's stopping me? Not much. I like my job sure. I love the people I work with. I enjoy the feeling of accomplishment and there's few things better than doing something new in our industry and being successful at it.

Having a steady, weekly paycheck doesn't hurt either.

But I think it's time to ramp up toward professionalism. There's all sorts of tangential jobs that I can do that aren't directly related to just writing novels. There's editing, web-design and promotion, all sorts of talents that I have that could help me become a professional writer and author instead of the hobbyist that I am now.

A. Piper Burgi's post has come at the right time. Give it a year more, and if I'm in the same place with my life, you just might see me taking her posts seriously as a professional writer.

Walking Away Girl Covers . . . How Prevalent Are They?

Truth is that the first few lines of Dead End Girl (see here) did not grab me, and based on my reading speed so far, it hasn't helped me get into the book. I have had a change in the way I see first lines and catalog them (see here).

Based on the cover, and it's similarities to the cover of my own book, On the Edge, I wonder if I should do a series on covers where the reader only sees the back of the girl (see here).

Corduroy pants swished between Teresa’s thighs as she crossed the parking lot. She had a headache. That drive-thru headset gave her a headache every damn time. The band squeezed her skull like an old man trying to find a ripe cantaloupe in the produce department. Pressing and pressing until her temples throbbed. When the headaches were really bad, she got the aura. And it was gonna be a bad one tonight. She could already tell. By the time she got home, she’d be nauseous from the skull throb along with the stink of fryer grease clinging to her clothes and hair and skin. Sometimes she swore she could feel it permeating her pores. 

She placed a hand under the lid of the dumpster and lifted. The overhead lights in the parking lot glinted on the surface below. It looked like water, but it wasn’t. It was oil. Every night they emptied the fryers, dumping the used oil into this dumpster. It was a disgusting task. Worse than taking out the trash on a 90-degree summer day, when the flies got real thick, and the meat went rancid almost as soon as they put it in the bin. It was dead out. No traffic. No noise at all but her fiddling with the dumpster and the bucket.

Vargus, L.T - Dead End Girl

I'm hoping it comes along, but I just noticed this: the title is "Dead End Girl: A Gripping Serial Killer Thriller." If the author has to put into the title that it's "gripping" it doesn't bode well for the rest of the book.

BUT! It was free and it's not all THAT bad yet. It's very much in the vein of Silence of the Lambs. We shall see where it goes.

Take it to 11

I am writing a novel right now that I’ve tentatively titled Dev Palmer. In this novel I have a villain. I think villains are very interesting. Think about villains from your childhood. The Joker. Cruella Deville. Lex Luthor. Norman Bates. They're all extreme personalities. That's what it takes to be a villain. 

What I genuinely try to do is take a characteristic and take it up to its nth degree. To 11.

In the movie this is spinal tap, the guitarist, Nigel Tufnel, is very proud of an amp that he owns that goes to 11 (see HERE). He keeps telling the interviewer: "if I need that extra little bit more than anyone else can provide then I just turn it to 11. Everyone else can only go to 10 but I can go to 11."

It’s an absurd moment in the movie but it makes sense in terms of villains.

Who wants to see a villain who is like anyone else? Would the joker be any fun if he was just a regular old Joe? Or what if Cruella Deville was just Grace Kelly wandering about in her lovely way like she does in Rear Window? No one wants to see a villain who is normal.

What makes villains great is that they are to 11. The villain I’m working on right now is someone who loves to play games. Loves the drama loves the problems created by the games that they play. A while back I wrote about some work difficulties and I’m sorry to say I’m still having to deal with that same problem at work. This person loves playing games. He is the model for the villain in this book.

What I did was I just took his game plane to 11. Like any good tennis match one player must play against someone as good or better if the game will be any fun to watch. So the protagonist in this novel is someone who can’t stand games. Like the protagonist, I love consistency in my life. Things that happen in an in an order and planned manner make sense to me (see my post HERE about consistency).

I am a project manager at my job so I’m very used to planning things and executing plans. Consistency is huge. So I took that to 11 with the protagonist. This protagonist loves consistency loves to have a plan come together has plans for everything. He and the villain clash because of their personalities boat at 11 both opposite to one another.

The villain loves to play games while the protagonist loves consistency. It's the same thing that I have to deal with in my life, it's just rare that it hits 11 in my life.

Back To War by C.G. Cooper

I was a sergeant in the Army Rangers. 2nd Battalion, 75th Ranger Regiment. Part of U.S. Army Special Operations Command. Our unit, among other things, provided support for Delta Force missions and Special Forces. I was a hair's breath away from becoming a Staff Sergeant. Had I re-enlisted for just two more years I would have been and my life would have been much much different.

I mention all of this because C.G. Cooper, a former Marine Staff Sergeant has written a book, Back to War. That was incredibly compelling and fun to read, with some slight GI Joe-ish fantasy, and some of the most realistic descriptions of combat that I've ever read. I'd expect nothing less from a former Marine.

All in all, I was disappointed the moment the bat cave was found and the secret consulting group that was modeled straight after GI Joe came into play. I thought it was going to get too fanciful, too silly, too ridiculous.

Thankfully, the former Marine pulled it off. It had it's fanciful moments but all told it was well done enough to keep my interest. What I liked most was that the characters were real and their tactics were exactly the same things I experienced as a Ranger. No Supermen. No real heroes. They were just good guys doing their best. Perfect way to compliment some outlandishness . . . add verisimilitude every where else.

As you'll find out when I post about the last line (soon), he loses me with his final epilogue as well . . . Cooper's surprised me and pulled it off once, who's to say he can't do it again.

Constancy Vs Consistency

I heard from and saw my old friend again this week. Couple morning's ago and there she is. She reminded me of the importance of consistency. Not constancy, but consistency.

She may not be a constant friend, in fact the most I see her is once every few months, but it's consistent like that. I can count on seeing or hearing from her once every six to eight weeks. I can count on seeing her whenever I workout with my group. She's very consistent like that. She is steadfast and I know what to expect and she delivers without fail.

This is what great friends produce, consistency. You come to expect the same thing from them and they deliver. We had a guy named Baldwin in our unit who you could never count on. The entire time in the Army as a private you are constantly proving yourself. Why? Because you want to establish trust between yourself and your leaders and your squad. It's that trust that develops over time and you can build on.

Baldwin not only failed to develop that trust fully, but he undermined the trust completely. So we cut him away. In airborne operations there is one thing you never want to be, a dragged jumper. Exiting the door is one of the more dangerous moments of the jump. It's at the door that anything can happy. A piece of your uniform can get snagged, a loop of your static line could get caught, anything. When that happens you become a dragged jumper. The only thing you can do as the jump master is cut that person away. That's what we did to Baldwin. Once he undermined his squad's and his platoon's trust to a point where he could no longer be trusted, we had to cut him away. It was his lack of consistency that lead to his being cut away.

What's this have to do with writing? Well, you'll remember I'm in the midst of some character development. It's fun to take qualities that are irksome in real life, or even admirable and take them to the next level (more on that in a future post).

Calvin Coolidge wrote about persistence (see my post on it HERE). Consistency is just as important in my view. I've been writing consistently for over a week now and it's great to see progress on so many fronts. It's that consistency that helps us achieve, not constancy. Constancy can give out and fail. Consistency is the value that we should strive for. Roller coasters are fun, but not if they go on indefinitely.

It's obvious that in my life, as proven by seeing this old friend, that I value that consistency more than constancy. In writing too that seems to be the best to achieve results.

Stunning Silence

Lately I've been stunned by silence. It calls to mind a scene from John Adams with Paul Giamatti.

I was a histroy major, but for some reason I just can't stomach the history of the American Revolution. It just doesn't appeal to me. The John Adam's mini-series is the exception. One thing I love about the mini-series is that it shows the day in the life so well. I genuinely think that life back then was cold and miserable and slow. Every turn of the camera, every slice of life, convinces me that I would have hated to live back then.

Nevertheless, there is a moment in the series where John Adams, played by Paul Giamatti, and Abigail Adams, played by Laura Linney, share a not so secret understanding.

The show does an impeccable job of showing the strength of John and Abigail's love. There are many touching moments that come across perfectly thanks to these two actors. But there was one scene where John is considering a new job offer while they're seated at the dinner table, and remains silent for a long time. Abigail leans forward to him and says:

 "Qui tacet consentire"

I was a latin student in middle school and in high school so when my wife asked, "What'd she say?" I incorrectly (but almost) translated the phrase as "he who is quiet consents."

The actual translation is - qui tacet consentire videtur, "he who is silent is taken to agree" or "silence implies/means consent." Little did I know that this is a common phrase in international agreements and negotiations. In that scene it was a compelling moment and there was a lot said in that moment by the two actors.

Like I said, silence is ringing around me now, and has been for three years or so, and it tells me alot. I hope that one day I can write a couple of characters like John and Abigail and include that much speaking into non speaking moments.

Morning's in Novels

Even more than my "First Lines" string of posts (see HERE) and my "Last Lines" string (HERE), my favorite posts are those that focus on quotes about Mornings (HERE).

Take a look. It's like suddenly seeing "Orange and Blue" in movie posters. Once someone tells you to look for quotes about the morning in novels, you'll see them everywhere and in every book. Dawn's are described as "slow" and "lumbering." The morning sky is the color of pearl. It's stunning how often authors like to discuss mornings.

Louis L'Amour is no different.

In  Reilly's Luck, Louis L'Amour has the mention of the word "morning" thirty-three times in this little book. But the quote that stood out is:

The sun came gingerly over the mountains, and the sky and the ranch yard were pale yellow. Pete looked at the mountains for smoke, but saw none.

L'Amour, Louis - Reilly's Luck

Gingers and pale yellow. The sun moved "gingerly" and Pete looks for smoke on the mountains. Not a huge, interesting morning quote, but also not nothing.

Go take a look, you'll see it everywhere now.

Important First Lines

Although it didn't start as such, my favorite thread for this blog is my "first lines" thread (see HERE).

Why?

Prior to starting this blog I always thought that first lines were played up way too much. Now, having catalouged so many, I think they have just as much importance as they need.

So to continue this thread, I offer the one I've read most recently, from Back to War by C.G. Cooper.

The gang members stayed hidden as they watched the young couple from the third story window of the parking garage a block away. The couple was blissfully unaware of the five observers. Why should they worry? They were in the middle of the busy downtown nightlife. Police were present as usual and the crowd flowed smoothly along the packed sidewalks. The tallest of the gang was a thirty-something Black man named Dante. He had a short Mohawk cut and a pencil-thin goatee looked down at his latest recruit. 

“You ready to do this thing?” 

The young recruit looked no more than fifteen. His hazel green eyes starkly contrasted with his three-inch afro. He wore an oversized t-shirt with the New Orleans Saints logo plastered from front to back. His huge jeans were sagging and obviously way too big for his skinny frame. He looked like the prototype wannabe gangster. They called him Shorty. 

“Yeah. I’m ready.” 

Cooper, C. G.. -  Back to War (Corps Justice Book 1)

I'm only reading this book because for personal reasons we are limiting our family to less expensive books. I wanted to read a book by WEB Griffith. They were upwards of 8 bucks per book. C.G. Cooper is a discount at just two bucks.

From the first line, it's probably a good value. It's not a bad first line. It grabs a reader, it's an obvious set up for what's to come, and it's descriptive enough to be worthwhile, but fast enough to keep the interest.

I'll give it to C.G. on this one. It's a decent to good first line. 8 out of 10.

1W

Airport Stories

One thing I do know for sure, my writing and my travel are directly related. I have written about this before (HERE), but I love writing when I travel. There are so many experiences to write about, and so many people and things to see. If I sit down in an airport I can immediately find dozens of worthy characters and begin writing backstories about them immediately.

One day I hope to write a series of short snippets. Maybe call it Airport Stories or something like that. I always loved that movie with Tom Hanks where he is stuck in limbo in the airport.

He can't leave the airport because his passport is not valid. He can't fly home because his passport is not valid. He's stuck, right there, in the airport. The whole movie is fun to watch. I always think that if I had written that I would have filled it with silly things that I see in the airport. Naturally they did this too in the movie, but there is so much more than they brought up.

Today I got to sit across from three very old folks all discussing the different operations they have had. They sounded like they had been through an active war zone over the courses of their lives with all the surgeries and maladies they brought up, but here they were just happily discussing "shredded" meniscuses and things they'd had to have removed and the horrible doctors they have to deal with.

Those three alone would have made a quick and engaging chapter. Perhaps I should begin taking a tape recorder and record people at the airport. Airport Interviews I will call it. Sounds like a winner to me! It will be filled with colorful characters! Something like Amistad Maupin's Tales of the City. 

Sadly this is not a unique thought. The LA Times did an expose on writing from an airport. What I should have done is gotten this contract! (read the story HERE).

Always Good to Read and Old Friend

When I was in middle school I spent summers with my grandfather helping him at his bed and breakfast in the country. He was a huge fan of the half price books store in the little town near the place, and we would go into town for more books often. That little book store had a vast collection of Louis L'Amour novels and I started churning through them. Never got through them all, so now, when I'm hard up for a book to read, I'll turn to them.

I just finished Reilly's Luck and it was less than Louis' best book. The story by itself just wasn't that compelling. It started strong with a young boy being saved from being abandoned and killed. And the middle was decent, but the run up to the story and the end of the book were both things I'd rather just forget.

Still, as the title of this post suggests, it's always fun to go read books from an old favorite author. Old friends are always friends, right? So even a bad Louis L'Amour isn't so bad as long as he sticks with his strong points. At least the reader always knows what he's going to get.

One thing that continues to amaze me, especially as I work on my two works in progress, Sunset Perfect and Dev Palmer, is how prolific Louis was. When I do a quick look up of his bibliography I see over 188 separate novels. Here I am stuck on novel number 4 and he's spitting out 188. Even his worst probably better than mine.

New Outlook

Six or so years ago the company I work with suffered a major loss in the form of the death of a co-worker. He was at work and a piece of his equipment failed. He died within twenty minutes. I remember well the senior leader meeting that occurred just afterward. Our CEO stated a new outlook on safety and kept referring to this moment as his "stake in the ground."

At the time I didn't think it was that powerful. I realize now that it was far more powerful than at first I thought.

For the past few years I feel as though I've been wasting my time with my writing. Sure, I've been puttering away on several projects, but I've had other priorities that occupied my writing time. Writing small things and big things I've been wasting my time, talent and effort on an audience that didn't care. This is my stake in the ground moment.

• Those projects, they'll be knocked out and finished one by one.
• This blog, it will be updated daily. 
• This waste of time, it will be forgotten and I will move on. 

There's a new look and feel to this blog as you can tell. I'm looking forward to actually sticking with it this time. I've tried re-starts before. This one I can already tell is different and part of it is this stake in the ground. A commitment to myself and to those that read this that things will be different. Will I back-slide? Perhaps. Actually, most definitely. But I'll use this post and this stake in the ground as my way point and my cardinal direction.

Check back again soon. I'm back on course.

Intriguing Russia

Why do I find Russia so intriguing?

I loved Icon but Forsyth (here) . . .could be my new favorite book. The problem is that my old favorite book was Red Storm Rising (here) . . . an amazing book about war with Russia.

Why do I love Russia and Russian Wars so much? I can tell you now . . . for both Red Storm Rising and Icon the reason I liked those battles in the books was that they featured tanks. I don't even like tanks. I was in the infantry. We practiced with tanks and I hated them. We got to ride and drive one once . . . thought it was ridiculous. We even took a group picture while riding on one in the desert. Thought it was silly when I took it . . . still think it's silly. My colleagues didn't, but I did. I felt constricted and cumbersome. So why do I like tanks when I read about them in a fictional war with Russia? Who knows.

The book I'm reading now is the same. Command Authority. It's not as good as those other two, but wow. . . Russia is intriguing.

The flag of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics flew high above the Kremlin in a rain shower, a red-and-gold banner waving under a gray sky. The young captain took in the imagery from the backseat of the taxi as it rolled through Red Square. 

The sight of the flag over the seat of power of the largest country in the world jolted the captain with pride, although Moscow would never feel like home to him. He was Russian, but he’d spent the past several years fighting in Afghanistan, and the only Soviet flags he’d seen there had been on the uniforms of the men around him. 

His taxi let him out just two blocks from the square, on the north side of the massive GUM department store. He double-checked the address on the drab office building in front of him, paid his fare, and then stepped out into the afternoon rain. 

The building’s lobby was small and plain; a lone security man eyed him as he tucked his hat under his arm and climbed a narrow staircase that led to an unmarked door on the first floor. 

Here the captain paused, brushed wrinkles out of his uniform, and ran his hand over his rows of medals to make certain they were perfectly straight. 

Only when he was ready did he knock on the door. 

“Vkhodi!” Come in! 

The young captain entered the small office and shut the door behind him. With his hat in his hand, he stepped in front of the one desk in the room, and he snapped to attention. 

“Captain Roman Romanovich Talanov, reporting as ordered.”

Command Authority - Clancy, Tom.

Not an Excuse

This should not be taken as an excuse but it is just something I've noticed.

As I've mentioned several times were going through a merger at work (see more here). We have a culture clash going on between two types of people. The type I come from are innovators, they are people that push the envelope and try new things easily and aggressively. The other group we are merging with is more of a stay in your lane type of group. They like to keep to themselves. They like to do what they've done the same way every time.

(actual picture from work . . . that's me in the light blue)

This stay in your lane concept can be good because it makes for easily repeatable processes that are expected and understood. The problem is it leaves no room for trying something new or doing something different or better.

Today I was talking to a young lady who should've been on the innovation side. But the more I told her about this dream I have for training the more she pooh-poohed it. Every single argument I had she countered with another argument about how it wouldn't work, how it was too hard, how I shouldn't do it. It got to a point until I was out of arguments and so was she. Her final argument was, "it's just all so modern." I thought that was a pretty crummy way to end an argument and it doesn't really end it at all. Modern? Really?

So often I find that I know the expected argument from everyone from the other culture. Their arguments will always be well that's not the way we've done it . . .  it never works . . . we tried it once and it didn't work . . .  or no one's going to use all of that.

No this is not another post about mergers and acquisition's or about culture clashes. This is a post about why I'm having a hard time writing. After this 30 minute argument/conversation about my training dream I retreated back to my desk and realized I was tired. This was a moment when I had booked some time just to write and instead of writing I felt exhausted. I realized that for the last few months I've been more and more exhausted for this very reason. Not physical exhaustion . . . no, that comes from  my commute. This is mental and spiritual fatigue and exhaustion. It comes from always having to argue every single little point.

At my old company before we merged if you had an idea to push you talk to some people about it they would love the idea they would help you push it out there, add their insight then adjust, adapt and make it happen. No argument necessary.

Now, it seems everything from good morning to good night is an argument. Worst of all, as I wrote, I find that it's taking a toll on my writing.

But guess what? I'm not gonna give up on that training dream . . . and I'm certainty never going to give up on my writing. If anything by identifying the problem now, I can work to solve and work around it. Not only can I work around that young lady or find better arguments to convince her of my training dreams capabilities, now I also know that it's not worth the exhaustion to sacrifice my writing life. Or perhaps it means I should schedule around work in such a way that my ride in life is not affected.

So like I said it's not an excuse but at least I've identified the problem and I can work around.

Focused Thoughts

Although I did not particularly like On Writing by Stephen King (see here) I did get a few nuggets of valuable information from us.

One of the better tips I got was from some simple questions that King asked; if you aren't writing? What are you doing to advance your writing career or your writing in general. If you aren't reading about writing, what are you doing to become a better writer? If you aren't thinking about your writing, why not? What are you doing to become a better writer or make your writing better.

I may have mentioned once or twice before and this venue that I now have an extremely long commute every day. I have to wake up at 5:30 to commute to the other side of town, an hour long trip, and then I have at least another hour to get home. This is a lot of downtime to listen to books on tape, I suppose I should call it "Audible" now, to think about things, usually work, and to generally agonize about the day.

Lately I have been trying to train my mind to focus on my writing thanks to King. I have found it to be wonderfully productive not for actually writing but for providing some background and deepness to my writing, such as may exist there at all. 

Just the other day I was on my commute when I started to think about the history of one of my main characters and his motivation that led him to do certain things. All of a sudden I was able to craft a far deeper and richer history for that main character and I look forward to putting it into the novel.

Instead of having wasted time I'm hoping to produce some valuable time for my writing. By that same token I also hoping to find a better voice to text dictation app that will allow me to actually write my novel as I drive. That still seems to be a far distant future.

After Shock

I lost a lot more than I realize when my computer got stolen.

At that time I was working on a couple of stories that I was really enjoying. I wouldn't have called one of them literary fiction but it wasn't quite romance either it was something in between with a little bit a thriller involved. I'm not sure what I would call it but it sure was fun to write. It's all gone now. I was probably up to 30,000 or 40,000 words on it and now I can't find even one word.

I had another story I was working on about that same time. All of it's gone now. I went upstairs yesterday to work on the first one. Much to my surprise I couldn't find any of it anywhere. Not on my external hard drive's not on my cloud drives nothing. That's when I realized it must've been in my laptop that got stolen.

It would be sad except I wonder if maybe I'll ever see that story in print somewhere else. I wonder if the burglar took the laptop opened it up found my stories and is now working assiduously to finish it off and get it published. How awesome would that be. A best seller gets to market I read it and realize it's mine. I wouldn't even be mad.

Perfection Delayed

Today I found myself telling someone I work with: "perfection will not be a part of our job description for a while."

We are going to a merger with my company. My old company I felt like we were very innovative and we were constantly moving in the right direction very fast. Swimming forward.

The company we merged with I feel like it was only treading water. Not only that, I feel like they didn't want to swim forward. Not only is there a culture shock but there is a work product shock.

My old coworkers and I are very used to moving forward quickly and efficiently. Our new coworkers are not used to that. They are more guarded, afraid of decisiveness, more risk averse. When you combine all of that with the fact that there's a culture shock… I told my coworker don't expect the perfection we are used to for a very long time.

What does this have to do with writing? Whenever I write novels I have to constantly remind myself not to expect perfection. Writing novels is an extremely arduous painstaking task. You've heard the idiom most of writing is rewriting. I would like to amend that idiom to say most draft a rough draft and their crap.

Novels take a very long time to write. I have yet to write one in less than three years. The other day when I was speaking to my father-in-law, a big wig with Marathon Oil, about our merger he said, "buckle up in two or three years you'll be back to where you started." That really hit me what he said. I liked where we were before the merger. It's hard to think about waiting to were three years to be back to that place. It's very similar to when I edit my final draft of an hour compared to when I write the rough draft. I three-year wait. 

If nothing else my writing life may have prepared me for my merger life. And I suppose that's a good thing.

Short Story Monday Again

Time to post another short story. I started this little, now-blossoming tradition two weeks ago (see here) and three weeks back (here). So here's a snippet for one I wrote in 2010 and a link if you want to read more.

Trivial Concerns

Laura followed her husband Tony out the door into the grey street. The city fit her mood. A nagging, discordant feeling had taken root in the pit of her stomach years ago, just about the time, Michael, their youngest child, moved out. That nagging had blossomed into doubt these past few days in New York. Usually a dull, low throb, it flared up into a fire-ball after their latest argument in their hotel room just a few minutes ago.

Ostensibly they came to New York for her nephew’s wedding, but there was another reason for the trip. The therapist recommended it. A vehicle to spark their love life. A chance to rediscover what had been lost through the years. Something to help them rediscover the couple they used to be. Before, she’d been excited by the prospects. Now, as she trudged down the icy sidewalk behind Tony, Laura felt lost.

The therapist made it sound so simple. They changed over the years. Things they loved about each another when they met were masked by the presence of their children. The children were gone and their personalities were uncovered again. It happened to millions of couples. The empty nest syndrome. It was just a matter of finding that person they loved. What she failed to mention was the number of couples who split up when they couldn’t remember what they had loved about their spouse. Laura realized that it wasn’t going to be as easy as the therapist made it sound. Instead she was more and more convinced that it was over. It was impossible for her to love Tony like she used to. This New York trip, instead of helping Laura find the Tony she once love, convinced her that Tony was completely different.

For the rest of this story . . . click (here).

Writing Moods

I commonly talk about my moods like a sine curve . . . specifically I would be the red one below:

I have my ups and downs but in general they are smoothed out and most importantly even the low points, the nadirs, do not go too far below the threshold of unhappiness and certainly never hit despair. I'm sure there are folks out there who tend to go up and down well below that threshold, thankfully, I'm the type of person who is more generally happy than sad, but still have my ups and downs.

I think my writing moods are also similar to the red curve but that threshold between writing and not writing is higher rather than lower.

The area above the blue horizontal line would represent when I'm in a writing mood. The area below is when it is harder to write. Sadly, I think for me, those times when I want to write write write are few and far between. I have to force myself to write for the most part, and in general it's not fun.

The times when I find I write the most are when I am travelling. I wonder if I've forced my writing life to conform with my working life, where I spend time in airports and on planes, or have I picked a career that helps me work out my writing life.

Regardless, the answer I think for now is that I've got to get traveling again, and soon. Thank goodness I'm flying to New Jersey next week. Should force me to write quite a bit.

Comeback to Comback

I just finished reading come back by Dick Francis. Are used to think I had read every single Dick Francis books there was, but now I see there are a few out there I'll be there forgotten or I have not read. Truthfully I think that I've just forgotten them. I believe if I did read come back I read it when I was 16. That's 25 years ago. It's not remarkable think I may have forgotten it.

What's even sadder is that it's a completely forgettable book. That being said it was incredibly inspirational. One of the things I love about reading Dick Francis book is that I feel like I can go and do it better or just as good at the very least. While reading the last couple of books by him that I read I sell myself putting the book down running upstairs to my study and starting to knock out looks of my own. I don't know what it is but I feel like I can write just as well as he can. No I consider that a good thing he inspires me to write.

It was not that good a bug but it was decent, solid, well that written and worthwhile. There were a few too many characters to keep up with. The main character was the same main character that's in everything go Dick Francis book. The ending came way too soon. The romance was too superficial. One would think I didn't enjoy it, but I enjoyed it immensely.

 Now I'm on to a commitment book. One of those books I'm going to read and commit myself to not because I want to read it because I feel like I should. War and peace by Leo Tolstoy. I am Magent you will not hear a review from me quite a while. That's a solid chunk of book.

Show Don't Tell

At the end of last week's blog post I wrote the phrase, "are we showing them love . . ." This post will be about the writing technique that so many writers know, "Show don't tell."

I am accused often of being too analytical, I dwell on things too much, I re-read, agonize and over think things, usually things that don't matter. I used to live next to a craftsman and tinkerer. He could sit at his car all day and slowly tinker on it and eventually make it perfect and a work of art. I am not that guy. I am a forward mover. I'll move on and deal with the mess after. Forward movement is my middle name, but I'll also agonize afterward over things said, done, written and seen.

Lately I wrote the phrase, "I should have told you how much you meant to me," as a part of a character I'm writing for a short story.

This is the character I've been modeling for all these weeks.

Naturally, and if you've read these posts lately, I disagree. It goes back to writing technique. Show don't tell. It's more important to show you love someone than just to tell them.

How are you showing that person that you love them. That's the counter argument that the other character answers back with. Have you gone out your way? Have you racheted me up on the ole priority list? In what ways have you shown me that you love me?

Telling isn't always enough, particularly in writing. Showing should be the standard if you want to get the point across.

How Do You Spell "Love"

Another post on characters I'm building for my next novel.

A crisis point in my marriage occurred a few months ago that has come full circle lately. I was on my way home from a business trip and gave a call to the wife to say "good morning" and "I'm about to get on a plane." Just a quick call. Sadly, I called at the wrong time and basically the wifey didn't have time to talk and blew me off and hung up on me. Fireworks. The problem was that those fireworks had to wait until after a three hour flight and a one hour drive home to be resolved. The fireworks only got worse with age.

What's the point?

A while back I heard and had the chance to use the adage, "Love is spelled, T-I-M-E." If you want someone to feel loved and needed you should give them them gift of time. Make that person higher in the priority list than other things. If you don't at the very least make time for that person, they're going to get the message that they don't matter in your life.

I think about vendors and clients at work. Clients get an immediate call back. I need them to realize they are worth my time. They are high on the priority list. Not all vendors get a call back. If I don't call a vendor back, if I don't return their email, it is a way of saying "you are so low on my priority list, I really don't care if you stay or not, and truthfully, if you don't write back it might make my life easier." How do I know this? Because as a vendor myself, I get blown off and I get the message too.

At the point of those fireworks with my wife, she was showing me that I was not as important to her as all the other hoi polloi in her life. At the time of that call she was thinking about work. That tells me that her work was more important than I was. This came up in the fireworks. I remember telling her that her company won't be there when she's 70, whereas I, her husband will be. Which should be given the gift of her time and being higher up on her priority list.

Guess what's gone from our lives now. Her job. The company is gone. It's not an "I told you so" moment, instead I see it as a lesson to both of us to not miss the forest for the trees. Know what's important in your life and understand what your action may be saying and how they are interpreted.

Should there be more important things in our lives than our primary relationships? Of course. Business calls come up. Other things happen that must be addressed. But are we showing those we care about that they are high on our priority lists? Are we showing them love through time? That's the question we should always ask ourselves.

An Old One

Time to post another short story. I started this little, now-blossoming tradition two weeks ago (see here). So here's a snippet for one I wrote in 2003 and a link if you want to read more.

Ralph's New Wife

By Dick Hannah

It’s hotter than usual in town today, and I’ve always found that people stray pretty far away from the ordinarily when it gets hot. Ordinarily I would not be sitting on a little park bench in Newton watching for a woman I don’t know. Ordinarily I would have told my ex-wife and her screwball cousin to go do their own damn spy work and leave me out of it. Ordinarily I would have worn my hat and white shirt, not my blue shirt with no hat at all, but it’s hot and things are out of the ordinary.

A small tow headed boy with shoes that look three sizes too big for him climbs up on the bench next to me. His actions are resolute and determined and once up on the bench he stares at me curiously. I try not to notice him but I can sense his stare and realize it is only a matter of time before he breaks the silence.

“Howdy mister.” Says the tinny voice belonging to the boy.

“Yep.” I say slowly not wanting to encourage him.

“Whatcha looking at?” He asks following my gaze across the street.

“That boutique.” I say nodding.

“What’s a boutique?”

“That’s a boutique.” I nod again.

“You mean the one with all the old women talking and laughing inside?”

“That’s the one.”

“My mom goes there sometimes, but she calls it a sl-on.”

For the rest of this story . . . click (here)