How About a Preview...?

Hey all...well, I wish you and yours and Merry Xmas, a Joyous Yule, Blessed Kwanzaa, or whatever you like. 

I may have noted recently my displeasure or unhappiness at having to "get through" these holidays, and it's a battle. But I apologize if I freaked any of you out about that. I have a place to be today, and yesterday...I began writing a new, mad piece.

I've been working on this in my mind and through too many pages of sketches and storylines for two years. I hope it doesn't take that long to finish it.

I can't tell you too much about this, because I don't know how it's going to come out. But the story began from hours and miles of driving in total darkness, and listening to Joe Jackson's amazing Fast Forward CD.

So...here are the bashed out, first two pages of Part I, "Christmas in New York."

Times Square; this place was the center of New York City, mostly in the minds of those who’d never lived or been there. The place where dreams focused, for people who believed that old song, the one about making it there, and then propelling oneself further into the world.

      Christmas Eve, around the gigantic tree, bedecked with hundreds of ornaments, a thousand lights or more were revelers, celebrants of the holiday season, with lip service to the child supposedly born on this night, but more to the gayer, less serious aspects.

      Lights flashed across the sky, from the skyscrapers, the billboards and the windows of shops still open. Smaller and less noticed ones flickered as well, from the cameras of tourists taking selfies to broadcast to family and friends back home where they were. Others jammed the sidewalks and streets, partying from club to bar and then the next, and still more hitting those places with last-minute and impulse buys to be had.

      There too, the music: holiday sounds, from the traditional to contemporary, the voices of those at Mass and other more staid events, remembering what they were taught about the so-called Holy Night. The overproduced, glitzy versions of schmaltzy songs about winter wonderlands, a reindeer with an improbable nose, and of course Saint Nicholas; no one here seemed to remember the roots of these things, the Pagan Gods and Goddesses that bore these children.

      A word to the wise to those less experienced was: when in New York, one dressed and acted as though they lived there. The aim was not fall prey to the pickpockets, scammers and grifters that plied the city streets, in search of an easy mark.

      Amid the well-dressed and heeled, those of the middle and working classes walked, rushed and jostled for position in these streets, as they did all around the world. The chill of December was felt more by these folk, but they accepted cold and this time of year as a part of life. Their breath fogged like smoke or vapor; it rose and dissipated with millions more on this grand night.

      And within all these, were the ones that no one noticed, or would admit, even to themselves existed.

      The ragged creature shuffled along the sidewalk, her feet taking in the freezing walk through her battered sneakers. They didn’t even feel as though they were on her feet, these numb to near frostbite. That mattered nothing to her; at least they no longer hurt.

      She was surprised she felt anything at all. Cold had set in weeks before, and never left her. The thin clothing inside of the wool coat, still not one for this weather, did nothing to protect her from the elements. Her gloves, the fingers torn or cut away by a previous owner weren’t much help, but she flexed her hands and fingers as much as possible to keep some feeling. It gave her something to do with her hands, and to focus on.

      Her jeans had seen better years, and the wool cap could not keep the long, matted rat’s nest of black hair from being seen. Down over her shoulders it bounced, and looked more like dreadlocks.

      If anyone chose to look at this thin, gaunt urchin, one might see a face. Thin and long, the jawline was not completely square, but decently formed. Skin, pale from exposure; a Caucasian but not through and through, because it would have taken a very close look to see there might be a little more in this girl’s lineage.

      The eyes were a liquid blue, the black lashes long, even under the body’s duress. The nose, thin, not too large or too small, and the lips too seemed correct for a female that one might draw a picture of. She was not beautiful by the standards of the day, but she was not ugly, either, apart from her current disposition.

      The wind blew down these streets as the girl walked through, unable to find any protection from the buildings, the numerous vehicles or the people who stormed along; they paid no heed to this child, and she did not stop or bother them.

      There was no point. As the wind again tore through her, she drew her thin jacket, most of the buttons long gone about her, and kept on. The clouds had thickened throughout the day, she’d noticed, and there was almost no sun from this morning. A winter storm was coming; the first flakes had already begun to fall, glinting with the colors of the Christmas and city lights, and floated down like confetti. They already had begun to collect on the parked cars, SUVs, trucks and taxicabs that lined the block; it would be a bad night.

      Again, it didn’t matter. She kept walking, but her head came up slightly. Leaned against a brick wall, alongside one of the high end stores, she saw a man. Barely able to stand, in a rough looking jacket and clothes nearly as pathetic as her own, he held out a used McDonald’s cup, asking for spare change. There were few takers.

      She looked at him as she came abreast of him: he was black, probably in his twenties, but the live he led made him look forty. Sharp features, in the cheekbones, the prominent nose, damaged teeth behind his lips; his brown eyes stared at this strange one that walked past him.

      No words were exchanged, but the two nodded. They understood one another.

Well, what do you think? It is a dark, odd beginning, no? The book is tentatively entitled, Times Best Remembered, and I'll explain that in further detail when we finally get there.

I did this the other day:

I made a road trip from Harrisburg to Valley Forge, with a short stopover in Newtown Square, right near a former workplace. My goals were to hit every rest stop on the PA Turnpike, where I left "gifts" of my books.

Yes, it is a cost, but a write off. Here now, my books for free, in hand to those I hope will read them, like them, and expand the base.

The deck is stacked against us indie authors, it's rigged. Big bookstores won't stock you, indie bookstores won't stock you. They stock what they know they can sell.

How it is...we must make ourselves visible, and obnoxious. I aim to.

Feh!

So anyway, let me know if you like that. It's a good story; might be the best thing I've done.

The best work is the one you have not yet written.

Peace, Out.

Being the Change...Tag, You're It!

A scarlet, blood-red font to begin...

And then things take a turn. 

I watch as our mad world continues to spin, and realize that not much has changed. One of the reasons for that, of course, is our innate fear of change, doing anything different, and being different in any way but for the norm.

As we move into the "Holiday" season, I am not detecting as much of the annual madness this year. Mostly I think because I am trying to ignore it. 

My family and I stopped the gift-giving madness in the early 80s, because of cost. Even then, in the money-money-money 80s, we saw before others what was coming. I am not opposed to the give, or the get, but some things just lose their whatever.

This month is one that I get through, rather than experience. I do not feel the Christmas spirit, partly because of the ongoing argument.

We bitch and complain about the consumerist excess, but queue up at Black Friday and trample people to get "deals."

We talk about the religious reasons/aspects of the holiday, and how differently it was celebrated (not at all, really), and forget that entirely, forgetting conveniently that the holidays are Pagan ones.

I see no reason to not be kind to yourself this time of year, or at any time. I'm usually working most holidays, but I've also been fortunate to have friends willing to make space for one of those outlanders at their table or in their home for a bit. It's always cool.

I do find myself pretty often realizing my disgust for people who continue to live in a delusional fantasy that usually involves spewing hatred like blasts of birdshot, typically from behind a computer keyboard and a fake screen name. Or if they are really narcissistic, they put their name on it.

Look at me! 

Nah, I'll pass.

This is an exciting comment, and there's a backstory to it, and it has to do with a mother asking Gandhi's counsel about her son's sugar habit.

Gandhi reportedly said, come back in two weeks, and I'll have a talk with him.

Perplexed, the lady did as asked. He then spoke with the child, who said he'd work on it.

The mother asked, why did you wait two weeks?

Gandhi reportedly replied he had the same bad habit, and took the two weeks to work on it himself.

Interesting.

I'd heard that before, only it was a father asking for his son. Apocryphal or not, it is an example of not doing, "Do as I say, not as I do."

I, for example, cannot tell someone to stop drinking coffee. Nor would I ever.

Not sure why I'm writing about this, but change is a thing that is so frightening.

The reason we see the backlash against progress, and this is progress of any kind, is because those who think they have something to lose, actually think they're going to lose it.

Their guns, their marriage, their privilege, their...whatever.

We have a sad sense of nostalgia, as evidenced by our love affair with old things. Old music, which we have some connection to (I can't deny it), old TV shows, old cars, old movies, all leading up to the "Way Things Used to Be."

I once wrote in a lyric, "Don't look back at the past, because it might just catch up to you." 

Too many just remember the good things; they don't remember the trauma. They don't remember the violence. They don't remember the hate. They don't remember what hurt them.

And yet they still go back there, don't they?

It is fine to listen to great sounds from the past, whatever ones you love because there's great inspiration there. Authors, too, although as one myself I've felt rather disappointed in some of them.

Certain books I thought were great books, weren't so great in my mind. Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov, is hardly erotic or even sexual. It is an attack on the paper it's printed on, by a fiddling, obsessive-compulsive character, who began by writing a fascinating, descriptive tale...and the last half of it was a repeat that served zero purposes.

E.M. Forster's A Passage to India I'm trying to get through. The story is one that takes you there, and you are immersed in the colonialism, the racism, the outright arrogance of Britain. The Indian characters are willingly subjugated, foolish, stereotypical, even the doctors and lawyers who have somehow managed an education, lucky to avoid the lower castes.

It just does not translate into a story, but meanders in and out of places, and while it makes some sense, it does not tell me a good story.

There's a lot of great writers, many more good ones, and a lot of awful ones.

That's fucking that.

I don't think most writers are born great, nor are they recognized for it. I do cringe when certain people are hailed as the next great American author, or the next great whatever. What makes them great?

Somehow they fall into it, tell a story that grabs people, and it just works. But it needs to be in the hands of those who can get it into other hands, just as people put things on top of other things.

I'm going through another cycle of cynicism, but thankfully my old habits are largely gone, apart from the afore-mentioned caffeine.

So yeah...the change.

Tag, we're it!

If we want change, we have to make it. How do we do it?

You decide for yourself. 

This is the thing...I write...for ME.

I had to get that through my head. These are stories I want to write, am inspired to write, and enjoy writing. This is how I discharge all of the madness from inside my head, in order to figure out what's going to show up next.

Now, a shameless plug:

Live from the Cafe, available at http://www.sunburypressstore.com/Live-from-the-Cafe-9781620067147.htm

...and Amazon.com if you like.

Live is kind of a go back home story because I drew on growing up in Vermont, near Quebec, and the things I recalled (what I can, anyway) formed the basis of that story.

The mythical town of Harlandsville is a place that could be anywhere, but it also changes with the times.

Change is the big C in that town...they talk about it, think about it, experience it, and don't always like it.

But they DO IT.

The residents of the town, lifers, transplants, regular passers through? They know it's happening, and they can't stop it. But they carry one because their lives depend on that change.

It may seem that weird little cafe is the place where time stops, but it's only for a little while. Where the Smartphones are put away, and people have nothing to do but drink coffee, and talk to each other.

Not a bad thing, now and again.

I think if I did run a cafe, I'd be out of business in six months w/o no wifi...but it'd be kinda different, don't you think?

Okay to live in the time when you didn't have hotspots, but again you're not living there. 

And you know, Luc and Emily are Millennials, but their clientele goes across the spectrum. There, NO ONE gives a shit whether you're an old far, a Boomer, a Yuppie, a Gen X-er, or a Millennials, or what the fuck you are.

Step inside, you're welcome.

Make that every damn place we go. 

I don't give a fuck who or what you are. Respect is a two-way street. Don't give me shit, I won't give you shit.

Figure out how to straighten things out, and not just in a wardroom coffee clatch, but actually get out and do it.

I do it through work, by being fair, straight-up, and our employer is that way. You know when you hear us, you hear it fairly and correctly. 

If you like it, good. If you don't, that's fine, but you have to decide what to do with what you heard and learned.

Change.

The writing? I write for ME, but I hope to write for you. I hope you find my stories interesting, compelling, fun, whatever it does for you I hope is good.

I write what I want to see. The world I hope for, usually in everyday life. It may not be what you see, or want to see but it's a world that is attainable. 

Do we want it enough?

Do we want the change enough?

I know what I do. 

Think about yours.

Peace, Dafuq Out.

Book Deals, Writing, and Other Stuff

Hello once again...life has been keeping me on a fast track for the past several weeks, so I have not had time to completely process what has been going on. For all we say about slowing down and stuff, we really don't.

I will say this: my full-time work at GeoTraffic has kept me before numerous computer screens or behind the wheel of my long-suffering Honda for longer than I want, but I cannot complain. I'm full-time, I will have proper insurance, and I'm finally getting paid.

...did I mention I also have a book deal?

Yes...it finally happened. 

It's sunk in, and this is quite an event in my career. Yes, a dream to some extent come true. 

Here's the deal: about a month ago, I received a contract offer from Sunbury Press, which is located near here. They have a pretty fair-sized company with quite a roster of folks. I'd seen their books about, but didn't know much about the company.

Last summer, when I promoted "Parasite Girls" at the Midtown Scholar in Harrisburg (yes, I'm really name dropping, aren't I?), I shared the space with Robert Walton, who is on their label, as it were. He's author of "Fatal Snow," an interested adventure type story. Nice guy, and he put me in touch with the publisher.

I'd gotten some good feedback from the fellow, and so I went on about my business of getting what I THOUGHT would be my next book, "Drifters..." ready to go.

For some reason, I decided to again try and pursue an agent or a publishing deal with another book, "A Moment in the Sun." This one got some really unusual feedback from people. My friend Alice heard my shabby synopsis, and said, that one's interesting...

Another friend, Kat took the time to read the draft for me. Her response was very good. She liked the main character, Rei; she understood what Rei went through, and what some of the others were doing. She got an awful lot of it.

She predicted a winner.

Meanwhile, another friend Shelby agreed to read "Drifters..." This was right up her alley, she's just above the age group, and was avidly reading works of that sort. She was quite taken and thrilled with the adventure, and positive.

But is it ready, I wonder?

Doing too much, and too fast, and with too many plates being balanced doesn't work anymore. Multi-tasking is something I no longer do well. It gets tougher as you get older, and yet other things aren't so bad.

I'd decided to go through the channels with Sunbury, and "A Moment..." I didn't expect much. One agency in New York did ask for a two-week read-through period...they eventually said no, like the others.

All the others. Rejection is stock in trade in life, folks. You deal with it.

So...all of a sudden, here's an offer. My attorney friend Marakay looked it over...standard industry contract, but no screwjob. No murky fine print, no, "NOW WE HAVE YOUR SOUL" type of stuff.

They also don't mind Mitch Bentley doing the cover, but that's my cost to bear. No worries; why do you think I have a job?

So I signed. I have about 60 days to get it in, and hopefully they'll grant me a little more so Mitch can do his magic.

For those who ask: "Drifters..." is on hold, but not permanently. I think it needs a little more time, and I need to see if the sequel holds up in my head. I think it does, but that's for another year. 

"A Moment in the Sun" is a more logical step forward, and Mitch I think is right in his analysis. Flipping the titles is not a bad thing.

Here's the intro:

https://www.behance.net/gallery/13569033/A-Moment-in-the-Sun-Chapter-1the-Beginning

Got some good feeling from people. They like the start of this one. Like "Parasite Girls," "Moment..." deals with a peculiar aspect of Japanese society, but this is a problem that can be anywhere, and is.

I won't tell you what it is. Sorry, heehee.

I think there's more to do, and I know this will not be out till next year, but things take time, and I need to be patient with this one.

As it stands, I have this, I have work, I have my health (precarious at times, it feels), but I must carry on.

Having "Parasite Girls" in hand was quite a good feeling...the one that I get from a true publisher, and when I see this in shops...yes, then I will have done it.

Dreams are not unattainable. You have to go for them. You have to make them happen, and you cannot let anything stop you.

I admit, this has come at the expense of other things. Mundane things, stuff others take for granted, or find so necessary in their own lives that they can't let go.

I've let an awful lot go, and I cannot regret what I have done or not done. In the end, I know what I'm doing is right. 

My hope is to live long enough to see the reactions, and see the real feedback from people who "got it." 

That's better than money, believe me.

So, if I don't speak to you before then, have a Joyous Yule, or however you enjoy your holiday. I don't mind how you do it, but the people who think Christ is in Christmas...well, that was a Pagan holiday you know. Christ didn't have a thing to do with it, until that story was written by a Roman aristocrat.

Heh. 

So now I must be off to shamelessly plug my upcoming book, and get my car fixed. Fun, fun...see you when I do.

Dec. 24th and beyond

Time to consider it all...well, it's almost Xmas.  


I had a very good Yule, and the celebration of the Winter Solstice was a fine one.  There was a lunar eclipse at about 3 am on the 21st.  Missed that, but I heard it was pretty impressive.


I've done all my shopping, done just about everything I need to.  Now you must wonder:  as I'm Buddhist/Wiccan/Pagan, etc., how do I deal with Xmas?


I have no problem when people wish me a Merry Christmas; I know it's a gesture of kindness, respect and all that.  All good.  I don't care how you celebrate the holidays, as long as you do it for the reasons you feel right about.


For us, it's kind of the early part of the Wheel of the Year; the God has been birthed once again, and the cycle goes around once more.  Time to look back, and reflect, and think about what you will do in the coming year.


I can't get all preachy or tell you what to do with that; it's up to you.


Other have asked what do I do?  Well, I've almost always worked on Christmas.  In the radio business, there are no days off.  I'm working this weekend, so it's all good; I do what I do, get a little extra $$$, and make my way through it.


I'll probably do my holiday cooking tonight; I like to do that on Thanksgiving and Christmas.  Good food, and good whatever else; always fun.


I received an unexpected and sweet gift from Hannah, the "Office" manager--vegan homemade cookies.  How wonderful; I love her.


Things like that keep me from feeling too terribly depressed during the holidays.  We do what we can.  


Now I gotta go get cat food!  The little ones need their stuff, too!


Whatever you do, enjoy the holidays, and however you want to call it, do!  Show a bit of consideration for your fellow human beings, tomorrow and every day as we should.


Peace Out!