I wasn't back in the saddle, I was just pretending to be. Now here I am again. Will things get any better? Will I actually do any writing now? Hard to say, no promises.
The thing is, I got this job, and it is really, really intense. Not bad, just intense. But that kind of environment burns you down, and when you have to travel and get faced with a family emergency or two, and then the holidays, well, it definitely cuts into the energy that you would use for writing novels.
The upshot is, no novels are being written at this time.
As an aid to myself, I've been wanting to list the ideas I've been working on, either to keep from forgetting anything or as a prioritization tool. So I'll do that. In a day or two. Right now, the real priority is to have a martini and unwind after another very intense week.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Back in the Saddle
Hell yeah, I'm a writer. I tell myself that every day. The problem is, I can't seem to get anyone to buy my wares. Outside of my day job, that is.
And that's at the heart of the matter. A two-hour commute from the island to the city, then eight and a half hours editing instructional materials for a very wonderful and upstanding organization, then two and a half hours home again, then getting dinner on the table, dishes washed, kitties fed, etc. And a freelance project on the side, and an occasional teaching gig. And the "aging parent problem" too. So where does the writing get done? Not on the commute--that's where the freelance project project gets worked on.
So why am I telling you this, all the nonexistent readers of this blog? Because at the Pacific Northwest Writers Association in July, an agent advised us to establish a platform for putting our work out there...a blog, in other words. To write about the travails of being as aspiring writer and my encounters with the natural, the praeternatural, and the supernatural... to say nothing of the crazy humans of this planet.
And that's at the heart of the matter. A two-hour commute from the island to the city, then eight and a half hours editing instructional materials for a very wonderful and upstanding organization, then two and a half hours home again, then getting dinner on the table, dishes washed, kitties fed, etc. And a freelance project on the side, and an occasional teaching gig. And the "aging parent problem" too. So where does the writing get done? Not on the commute--that's where the freelance project project gets worked on.
So why am I telling you this, all the nonexistent readers of this blog? Because at the Pacific Northwest Writers Association in July, an agent advised us to establish a platform for putting our work out there...a blog, in other words. To write about the travails of being as aspiring writer and my encounters with the natural, the praeternatural, and the supernatural... to say nothing of the crazy humans of this planet.
Monday, November 9, 2009
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:
What do you think? A cyne manifesto?
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?
Saturday, July 4, 2009
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.
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.
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.
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.
Friday, June 26, 2009
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!)
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!)
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