Werewolf Manifesto?

When I started blogging about writing a werewolf novel, I thought they were fictitious creatures, but I've been amazed at some of the werewolves I've met online. Seems like there's some movement going on in their packs. I think they might be plotting something.

This morning, I found a sheet of paper slid under my door. This is what it said:

For thirty centuries you have harbored a prejudice against our kind. You have hunted us, driven us into the forest, shot us, beheaded us, burned us at the stake. You have slandered us and libeled us, accused us of hunting you, killing your children, feeding off you and your livestock. You have made us silent and invisible, even as you exploit our images and our wisdom by forcing us to serve you while we pretend to be human.

The days of your ascendance are over.

From now on, we will not be your victims. We will not let you tell your lies.

We will not hunt you for prey, but we will make sure justice is done.

Remember this: We exist. We are in your towns and farms, and we are in your cities. We are watching. And we do not forget.

What do you think? A cyne manifesto?

Chapter I (continued)

I love my kids. I do, I love all my kids, from the biggest down to the smallest. This last one, I don’t know, I can’t help thinking I should have been a little more, what’s the word, engaged. Not that there’s anything wrong. He seems to be turning out okay, inasmuch as anybody can be okay given the uncertainty in the world. He plays sports, he gets decent grades, he’s got friends, he’s got a girlfriend, all the signs are okay. What’s to worry about?Still, I wonder sometimes if I should have paid more attention. Played with the Legos, built forts in the backyard, that sort of thing.

I did that with the first two, Tom and Jason. Then we had the two girls, Elsa and Jonna. And I made an honest effort with the dolls and the tea sets. But really, I was running out of juice as a parent by that time. Seven years zoomed by, and then we were pregnant once again. Of course we were thrilled. But he was a bit of a surprise, was Mikey.That was fifteen, almost sixteen years ago. So there’ve been kids in the house for over twenty-five years. And I love that, I really do. But every so often, I’d like a little peace and quiet. A little me-time, as the ladies say. Not that that translates into a bubble bath with scented candles, the whole nine yards, but it is a chance to breathe and relax and not listen to anybody. And not meet anybody’s expectations. It’s a time to eat a hot dog on a bun with mustard and ketchup, but no plate underneath, nothing but a paper napkin between it and the carpet. Darlene’s at knitting class, and what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

So here I am, walking in the door, just a little bit late, but that’s okay. I stopped at the store for a couple of things, some of that Bleak Abbey Ale and a jar of hamburger relish. That’s the red kind of relish, the kind with ketchup mixed in. And, believe it or not, a jar of kimchee. I like hamburger relish and kimchee on my hot dog, something you just can’t get at the ballpark. I walk in the door, set my briefcase on the stool and the paper bag on the counter. I let my arms drop to my sides, hanging at the waist, and I breathe. So quiet. Just the ticking of the kitchen clock and the bubbling of the fish tank in the hall. Heaven.

Dinner can wait. The first order of business is to crack open a beer and plop down in front of the TV set. I’d like to be watching the Sonics game, but they aren’t here anymore so I’ll settle for the Sounders. Soccer moves fast enough. I made the JV basketball team in high school but I wasn’t tall enough for varsity. As for my kids, none of them was really interested, except the youngest, Mikey, and Lord knows he’s too short.

I sit on the couch, kick my shoes off, put my feet up on the coffee table. Pick up the remote and start channel surfing. I take a swig of beer and switch to ESPN. A few minutes go by. I start to feel that someone’s watching. The hair on the back of my neck stands up. I turn my head to the left, slowly. Nobody there. I turn my head to the right, but before my chin is pointing the same direction as my shoulder, I hear a yell. “Hyaar!” it goes, and there’s a light karate chop to my shoulder.

Instantly I’m up and turning to the back of the couch, and there’s my kid, Mikey, halfway over the back of the couch, laughing at me. “You little shit,” I say. We shadow box, then I try to grab him, but he’s too quick for his old man. So there’s a chase around the living room. Finally, I grab him by the shoulders of his denim jacket and drag him over the couch onto the floor.

He bangs his shin on the coffee table. “Shit,” he laughs. “That hurt.”Then he gives a kick that glances off the table surface, just enough to knock the table to the side and knock the beer over.

“You little pisser,” I say. “You’re gonna pay for that.” I grab him in a headlock and hold him for about thirty seconds. But he’s the wrestler, I’m just the middle-aged dad, so, even though I’m bigger and—supposedly—stronger, he wriggles out and jumps up. “Clean that up, kid,” I say. He runs into the guest bathroom down the hall, grabs Darlene’s nice towels, and thows them on the beer that’s collecting in a puddle on the carpet. “Uh oh,” I say. “You really screwed up now... Everybody knows we’re not supposed to use those towels.”

“Hey, this is an emergency.”

“Maybe it is,” I say. “You better scram. Let me handle your mom.”

“Okay, I’m out of here.”

“Not so fast, kid. What time you coming home?”

“Midnight.” I make the game show wrong-answer noise. “Errh. Try again.”

“Eleven-thirty.”

“Make it ten thirty. And don’t be late.”

“Okay dad. See you.”And he was gone, leaving me on my hands and knees, mopping up beer with Darlene’s guest towels. Empty nest, remember? Just hold out til then.

Chapter 1

Pretend we're on a game show, Family Feud or something like it. The question is: After five kids, what do parents most look forward to?

Survey said...Empty nest syndrome? If you’re a parent, you probably guessed. A little bit of peace and quiet.

Not that our nest is empty yet. Our littlest two chicks have yet to fly the coop. I'm estimating we're seven to nine years away from that glorious day. But when the day comes, I’ll be ready for it. TV remote in one hand, and a beer in the other. I’ll settle back in the easy chair with a self-satisfied smirk on my face and I’ll say, well, I don’t know what I’ll say, because every time I get that far in my thinking, I get interrupted. As I said, the nest isn’t empty yet.

I got home early today, around four-o’clock. Six pack of Bleak Abbey Ale in a brown paper bag, along with chips and bean dip because who's got the patience to make guacamole? And a frozen pizza for dinner because it’s Darlene’s night out; my night in.

The dog met me at the door. Her name is Estelle. Don't ask. I know Estelle doesn't need a walk yet because my wife, Darlene, told me she'd walk her before she left for the evening. So I reach down and pat Estelle once or twice on the head and call it good. Estelle is a low maintenance dog, when all is said and done. Still, my definition of empty nest is no kids, no dogs. And no cats either. It's me and Darlene and all the things we should have discussed but never got around to when the house was full. A dog would only get in the way.

On To Something New

Thank you, devoted readers. I'm deeply grateful to you both for sticking with this so far. Since my readership shows no signs of increasing, I'm about to try something else. Yes, I'm going to post work in progress here on the advice of Hugh MacLeod in his book Ignore Everybody. This is a helpful handbook on managing your own creativity--a little peptalk (if you need one) in book form.

But anyway. Several years ago, I had an idea about a certain character and his family (including his teenage son, who may or may not have committed a murder). I'm in the process of figuring out the best way to frame this story by writing short sketches narrated by this main character, the father. And I think it might be beneficial to me to make them all visible, so to speak, on this blog. I think I'll be less lazy, less apt to cut corners if my work is exposed to scrutiny. So here goes.

For those who are interested in volume I of the werewolf series, the manuscript is finished. I'm now trying to show some literary agents that it would really be in their best interests to take a look at it. Volume II is now in progress--but offline.

RIP Michael, and Farrah, and Betty Allen and ...

So many deaths lately. The one mentioned above are celebrities, but this week we've also lost a dear dear friend of Kurt's, and two much loved parishioners at St. James Cathedral in Seattle.

Also Ed McMahon,

Betty Allen was great African American opera singers of the last century; a true pioneer.
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/06/25/arts/music/25allen.html

I am now working on my sequel to the werewolf novel, another werewolf novel. I wish I could tell you more... :-) (Don't be coy, Britton!)

Done?!

I think I'm done with A Wolf Is My Shepherd--finally. Third draft. I'll read it through out loud quickly to look for typos, but I think it's ready to fly on its own--see if it has wings, or is it legs?

Anyway, I have three projects going, my cat book (a cross between Harry Potter and Watership Down, except with kitties as the main characters), a murder mystery set in a large nonprofit organization, and a book about a man who's trying to figure out whether his high school age son killed someone or not. I took a wrong turn with the cat novel four years ago, so now I'm trying to figure out where that happened and how to fix it.

But I do want to celebrate finishing the third draft, even though, as far as a prospective publisher would be concerned, this is really only the first draft.

Ziggy 3

The day came in June when my friend Stephanie came over to help me pick up Ziggy. She had a friend who did pet grooming, so, for a birthday present, she arranged to have Ziggy groomed before we took him home. You can imagine: a longhaired cat, out on his own for 16 months. Yes, he was filthy.

It was a hot day for June in the Pacific Northwest. Sweet Stephanie had taken the afternoon off work--and as a Microsoft contractor, she was making a sacrifice because she was paid by the hour. She also brought her pet carrier. We went to E&L's house. L invited us in. Her daughter was home from school, and they made ice cream sodas with club soda--a novel concept to me. I'd always made them with 7 up or coke or rootbeer--and in fact, you really don't need the extra sugar, believe it or not. I know, absolutely revolutionary.

We sat in their backyard and savored the ice cream sodas. (I was getting the feeling that Stephanie was eager to hit the road, but nobody had said anything, so there we were.) Ziggy was a friendly kitty, so he came over and flopped in the shade next to us. His ears perked up when we mentioned his name. L said, "He knows we're talking about him."

So, all stealthy like, we scooped him up and plopped him into the carrier and set it in the backseat of the car. Then Stephanie and I set out for parts unknown. Well, she knew where we were going. Way far away. Long way away. Past Fall City, if you can imagine. In fact, somewhere around Fall City, we both wrinkled our noses and asked, "What's that smell?" Of course you KNOW what it was. Poor Ziggy had pooped in the carrier. Uh oh.

After about an hour, we got to where we were going. Unfortunately, driving up the driveway, we met Stephanie's friend leaving in her pickup truck. Turned out she had a massage appointment.

So we got out. Hosed down the carrier with the garden hose. Tried to clean the poor guy up. He'd peed himself too by that point. We put him in the grooming room and waited. And waited. We waited about three hours, until after dark, as a matter of fact. I had to pee so bad, I'm squirming just thinking about it. The weather had been hot when the sun was out, but it sure turned cold after the sun went down. Finally, she came back. Filled up the sink with warm sudsy water. Put the poor cat in up to his neeck and gave him a bath.

We put him back in the carrier and cranked up the heat because he was soaking wet. Grabbed a burger in Fall City and finally got to pee. "Poor Ziggy," said Stephanie. "This is the worst day of your life, isn't it?" In reply, he peed himself again. So we got him home, Stephanie (God bless her!) took off, and I hauled him upstairs and gave him another bath in the tub. I wrapped him in a towel, showed him the food and the litterbox, and set him on the bed. He shook the towel off, jumped down to the floor, and hid under the bed. He didn't come out for two days. And believe me, I was checking the litterbox to be sure.