Ties That Bind
My life is tied to written words.
I chose to bind myself to them. Sure my mom led me to a love of reading with those countless trips to the library, but I fell in love with books and stories, characters -- imaginary and otherwise of my own volition.
That love of reading created the writer I am today. Now I'm bound to written words all the more. Writing is are how I express my ideas, my emotions, my sentiments. But it is also how I learn explore and investigate.
What I write isn't always true. That's the beauty. As a writer I can deliberate lay out untruths and still not get labeled a liar, but rather a novelist, a purveyor of fiction, an examiner of the human psyche.
Fiction authors do not tell the truth in the traditional sense,but we do reveal ideas, emotions, and sentiments that the universal truths of this world. We create something believable, tangible, and lasting. Or at least we do when at our best.
How do we do it?
By watching, studying, living.
Writing is often about the underbelly of life. The rawness lurking in the shadows that few of us ever want to expose to the light of day. Writing and reading are liberating pursuits.
I originally wrote this as a lead in to discuss my father. He passed away some years ago now. He was only 66. Unfortunately his affairs were not in order, and as I have always been somewhat estranged from his side of the family, This led to me having to juggle and walk a tightrope between carrying out his last wishes and settling his estate amidst dissenting views. This all led to mess of lawyers and a pile of he said/she said.
I survived that prdeal and used it as fuel for a novel I am currently shopping around.
That is how the mind of a fiction writer works.
We search for bigger truths, hidden meanings, and scraps of humanity in all situations. Good and bad. This was definitely one of the bad, but I am a writer. My emotions are tied to words so perhaps the truths, the ideals, the emotions of my experiences will elevate my ability to tell a compelling story, because unlike people, written words, can live on forever.
Taking Flight with the Thieving Birds
So I had this gig writing for a music magazine. It was fun while it lasted, but we mutually parted ways after having a deep philosophical divide about the musical influence of the late great Waylon Jennings, compared to the bro country babble of one Luke Bryan. I was hired as the Indie music contrarian and the magazine decided to go a new direction, targeting mainstream country fans, which is certainly their prerogative, but my musical tastes are not in line with that vision and faking articles I am passionate about, is not why I write.
I am proud of some of the stuff I wrote including a few articles that were rejected as too far off the mainstream path. Today I am sharing one such article about a band called the Thieving Birds.
TAKING FLIGHT
From small towns to big cities, they are all the same …
A scratched, dented bar. Stools to perch on. Not too comfortable, but sturdy and more than adequate to take a load off. Off in the corner, the golf video game replays glory shots of games past. Beside it, a man is taking shots, not of liquor, but at pixelated deer with an orange plastic gun …
… the neighborhood bar.
Under the soft glow of neon, two men play pool. The clacking of balls a natural accompaniment to the clink of beer bottles. The flotsam and jetsam of conversation rises and falls to the volume of the music. There, in the space between songs on the Touchtunes jukebox you catch a shiny bit of confession not hushed in time.
It is early still.
The back corner where the small stage sits, if you can call a few raised planks of plywood a stage, is dark. Waiting.
Most of the crowd came to drink. They'd be just as happy if the band didn't play. Talking over the jukebox is one thing, but they’ll have to shout once the band kicks off.
There are a few of us who came for the music.
But not the rowdy happy hour holdover holding court at the bar. His suit jacket tossed to the side as forgotten as the crappy work day that drove him to stop in for a beer or ten before heading home. He'll call in sick tomorrow, not really remembering what went down, but neither will he regret the night. Except maybe for the dry cleaning bill to remove the smell of cigarette smoke from his suit jacket. But even that is okay, because hey, he nearly talked that waitress, the one with two inches of tanned flesh showing beneath her Senor Frogs tank top, into going home with him …
… the neighborhood bar.
The band arrives and checks in at the bar. Everybody but the bass player orders a beer, because the bar provides domestic bottles or drafts free of charge to the talent. The bassists doesn't care. He pays for a Jack and Coke because he likes that whiskey burn. Because he needs that moody edge.
The band takes the stage to tinker with their equipment. There are no roadies here. These guys are their own roadies. For that same reason the t-shirt and CD table stand sits empty until after their set.
This same scene is played out night after night. Could be any bar. Could be any town. Could be any band.
But on this night there is magic in the air.
The Thieving Birds are playing more than three hundred miles from their home in Fort Worth, Texas. They are playing for less than fifty people in a nondescript bar. In a nondescript town. Lead singer and guitarists Ace Crayton looks like Val Kilmer, circa Doc Holiday in Tombstone, but like the band's genre, Crayton's voice is harder to pin down. Smooth entering the notes, but rawer on the exit. Every word packed with emotion.
Are the country? Are they rock? In the end it doesn’t matter, because they are just that damn good.
The band has undergone a few changes. Kenny Hollingsworth has taken over at guitar joining Crayton, bassist Rody Molder, and drummer Beau Brauer, but their music is raw, emotional, thoughtful and rebellious somehow. Listening to them is liberating in the way adulthood seldom is. Like a stolen smoke in the junior high bathroom, or that rush of adrenaline the first time you talked your girlfriend into sneaking out the window after midnight.
Live and on stage they interact with their audience and are playful between songs. Readily accepting shots from their handful of admiring fans, the band didn’t seem to care how many were in attendance just so long as those in the room enjoyed the show.
And enjoy it they did. In the middle of the set I looked around. The pool balls sat idle, the orange plastic gun dangled from its tether. The happy hour business man took a break from his pursuit of Miss Senor Frog and settled happily onto a not-too-comfortable stool, whiskey in hand. The Thieving Birds had captured the room, taking flight with energy, magic, and talent.
These birds are no doubt headed for greatness and my thoughts after listening to both of their albums (Gold Coast and Thieving Birds) only reinforced that I was lucky to catch them in such intimate terms down …
… at the neighborhood bar.
Paying for Your Raising
Writing a novel is a whole lot like becoming a parent. At this point I have written around three million words over the last thirty-ish years but with each new project I am reminded just how tough the process can be.
Conception - This is the fun and exciting part. Daydreaming and coming up with story ideas is as exciting and blissful as sex. Every plot, or future child, is full of potential. With every new idea or conjured twist and turn I visualize literary agents beating down my door, editors vying for the rights, book clubs and Oprah clamoring to read my words, best seller lists. Hollywood itching to convert my manuscript into film. Would be parents, visualize their unborn as the next Einstein, or Payton Manning, or Bill Gates, future president, or feel free to insert hero or heroine of your choice. No writer sees his book as just another rejection letter and no parent sees his child as a crack addict.
Birth - Reality sets in when that great idea hits the paper in the form of words, sentences, and paragraphs. Or when you have to slip out of a nice warm bed to comfort a crying baby at three AM. Then you realize that some of the stuff in your head just doesn't work in print. You stare at your first couple of pages and say this is crap. The stench makes you gag like a first-time dad changing a dirty diaper. Oh, but there are those moments. That one great metaphor you come up with, or that exciting new dimension to one of your characters. It's kind of like that first time your child reaches up of their own will and touches your face. You realize, Hey I created this and the cockles of your heart turn all warm and fuzzy. What is a cockle anyway?
Terrible Two's - Okay, so a manuscript can't throw itself on the floor kicking and screaming. It can't yell NO! and kick you in the shin. But a novel in the beginning stages of life can be unruly just the same. Characters that do not develop the way you envisioned. Secondary characters who develop too well and threaten to override their supposed stronger and more interesting rivals, YOUR PROTAGONISTS. Plots can suddenly wither and stop growing. Complications arise that make your entire plot implausible or just ridiculous. Like a young child testing the boundaries, this first rough draft stage is a writer’s test to see if they can remain focused and take a story from beginning to end.
Going to School - Potty training is over. You've laid the groundwork for your baby but now it's time to send them out in the world. Kindergarten or critique group. First grade or a contest entry. Is it any harder to have somebody say I hate your heroine and the plot doesn't make sense, than it is to hear your child bit little Timmy Smith, or I had to send him to time out because he refused to sit down and listen? But just as your child needs the attention and guidance of classroom so does your novel. That is not to say you want a teacher to raise your child or someone else to write your novel, but sometimes it takes that objective unbiased person to take a look and say this needs to be changed.
Graduation - I have experienced that surge of pride of finishing a novel. It is quite an accomplishment just as it is to see your kid walk across the stage and accept that diploma. A finished and polished novel or a kiddo now eighteen and ready for life to begin. Now it is time to send them to college or out in the world via query letters.
Life - I correlate getting an agent with being accepted into a college. Sure there are the Ivy League of literary agents and then there the community junior college ranks of agents. I'd stay away from the online technical and vocational agents since they are likely to charge you fees for things such as editing and what not. I'd associate an editor as grad school and so forth.
I think you get my idea. So you send your little charge out in the world and if you are talented, lucky, and persistent it is accepted, everyone loves the little guy and before you know you're grandparent. Yes, that truly is how sequels are born.
Let's Help One Another
Now that I am a full-time writer my routine is a bit different. Used to be I stole time to write. I carried a notebook and wrote by hand in starts and stops. At work, in the park waiting for my son's soccer practice to end, in a variety of doctor and dentist waiting rooms. Then I'd type it all up first chance I had and layer in more depth.
At least that is how I did it for fiction. Freelance work was a bit more linear as I'd do the required research and then write the article in one fell swoop.
Over the years my body of creative work has piled up. In addition to the published works and sold stories and articles I have numerous works both finished and incomplete. The toughest thing these days is staying on one project because I often feel like a have the voices of a thousand characters whispering in my ear. Characters and projects actually.
And then there is the hunt for new and continued freelance work, because as a full-time writer I can't rely on royalties for books past or the far off splash of future royalties. I know Mr. King and Ms. Rowling do not share this financial problem, but I'd be willing to bet they have to fight off the siren call of other projects in order to finish one.
The ability to finish books separates the professional from the hobbyist much more than talent. I have known some incredibly gifted writers who never once finished a novel.
I say all of this to motivate some, and remind others. Including myself. Finish the damn thing already!
Pink Bombs and Misguided Gullibility (My Weekend at the Movies)
Hello Friends. Thought I'd dust this blog off and talk movies today since I recently saw two of the three most talked about films and the third I absolutely will not shell money out for because while the overall message certainly has merit, the whole thing feels like a sleazy scheme to extort from the gullible.
I am referring to Barbie, Oppenheimer and Sound of Freedom.
I probably would not have gone to see Barbie at all had my wife Connie not wanted to go and I drag her to all kinds of concerts and events she isn't enamored with initially so I was happy to spend the time with her and go see something she was excited for.
Let's get the controversy over the movie out of the way first. It is rated PG-13 so when I see or read complaints from parent's who took younger kids I dismiss them right away. Absolutely no one is advocating for you to take your little girls that still play with Barbies to see this movie. So going on about "Evil Hollywood" grooming your kid or ruining their childhood because Barbie says in the movie she doesn't have a vagina and Ken doesn't have a penis.
Guess what? Every kid who has ever played with a Barbie or GI Joe has at some point unpants the doll to see what was underneath so we all knew this fact long before Barbie dared utter it in dialogue.
This so-called controversy is just another example of people looking to be offended and we all know if you look for something hard enough you will damn sure find it. Get over yourself.
SPOILER ALERT
(Skip down below the picture now if you do not want a spoiler)
Seriously this is your chance ...
because if you do not skip ...
You will read about the ending of the Barbie movie.
Okay hopefully I gave enough of a buffer that only people who do not care about spoilers, or have already seen the movie are still reading. Barbie goes to see a gynecologist after choosing to live as human and judging by social media this seems to offend a lot of people. All I can say is there was nothing controversial here. Women need to take care of their health. Yes, this includes their reproductive health.
The filmmakers were clearly just establishing the fact that Barbie had become human and therefore did now have genitalia and that requires checkups. There was no mention of birth control or abortion. She wasn't at Planned Parenthood. She wasn't making a political statement at all. Perhaps the filmmaker wanted to suggest Barbie could now be a mother given the scenes that preceded the visit. But again, there was nothing controversial or political there and acting offended because a woman goes to see a gynecologist is absolute craziness. Again, get over yourself if this bothered you.
Spoiler averted. Read freely starting here ...
Moving beyond the much ado about nothing talk of invented controversies the movie was simply okay for me. I give it a 6 out of 10.
Now there is one big talking point of the movie that is pissing some people off. The movie unabashedly bashed the idea of Patriarchy. But let's face it the people angered by this are the very people benefitting from patriarchy.
Yes, society has evolved and will continue to do so, but no the patriarchy is not completely in our past. Men have had it far easier than women for ... well ever. Except maybe in Barbie land where Ken has always been an accessory rather than the focus. Because of that the movie was in a unique and great position to highlight both sides of this and make some great valid points in a fun manner. And it did for the most part, but I think the movie tried too hard especially toward the end.
Sometimes writers or creators have to get out of the way and trust their words or work to speak but when they reach for a hammer and try to beat the point in they lose a bit of their meaning and power.
In this regard Barbie reminded me of Happy Feet, yes the animated penguin movie. Both movies did a good job of making their point but then added unnecessary montages at the end to hammer their point home and in doing so began to feel overtly preachy therefore hitting that "preaching to choir" vibe that never changes any minds.
That said, I doubt anyone was going to see Barbie hoping to be educated or enlightened so probably the move was doomed to be preaching to the choir anyway. I did enjoy the humor but felt like they left a lot of potential for more on the table.
On to Oppenheimer.
Great movie. 9 out of 10
Going in I expected a dark, heavy movie that would leave me sullen afterward. I expected it to be about the problems and difficulties of turning science and theory into a devastating weapon of mass destruction with a side of guilt and regret and yes there was some of that, but the movie was so much more than problem solving and moral dilemmas.
For me the movie reflected today's politics as much as they did the past’s, but not in an artificial or blatantly objective way. History aside, this film is about the depths one person will go to soothe their battered ego and climb to position of power they can use for their own benefit.
I won't claim to have the depth of knowledge or historical insight to say whether the movie is accurate in its depictions of events. I will say I thought it did a great job of striking balance between obligation of duty and hesitation of heart. There were times I wanted the movie to slow down and take a deeper dive but given the 3 hour run time and the amount of story to tell that was an impossible task.
The first hour of the film was a bit hectic and left me with thoughts of a story in a blender but the back two-thirds settle in for me and I eventually understood why we had to rush early on. The movie was reverent in tone even when the characters "celebrated' the achievement of their goal.
The imagery, the acting, the ending all were damn close to perfection. And no I did not leave the theatre feeling down or depressed but rather grateful and relieved.
Grateful that I had to opportunity to see the movie alongside my two sons and relived by the fact that at least how the movie portrayed these characters that greedy, pettiness, and diabolical scheming is borne out in the annuls of time.
I hope this is the case because I hate to think a man can go from being humiliated at a White House Correspondents' Dinner for asinine conspiracy theories, to using that shame as motivation for a political career and needlessly setting back our nation fifty years, just to prove his point and make a fast million or ten, while jeopardizing the health of nation and world and ultimately inciting insurrection to try and desperately hold onto power without history mocking him for it.
In this I found the movie Oppenheimer comparable to todays politics and yes the historical significance of the United States developing and deploying two devastating bombs is a somber lesson we all need reminded of nearly eighty years after the fact, but we also must be cautious of the divides we face today and who is exploiting those divides for gain.
This brings me to the other movie in the news.
Sound of Freedom
Haven't seen it. Won't pay to see it.
Before some QaNon, 4 Chan zealot labels me one of the Liberal Elite Devil Worshiping writers of the word let me say I am fully aware that human trafficking exists on a large scale and is a terrible, horrible thing that definitely needs more resources and awareness brought to the fight.
I myself have an unfinished novel that I've spent countless hours over the years researching so I'd wager I know more about these atrocities than most of the public. Do I think the Illuminati/New World Order/Devil Worshipping Democrats are masterminding and profiting from human trafficking on some global scale? NO!
I think the world has all kinds of evil people hellbent to make money anyway they can. Has there ever been a politician or respected leader involved? Almost definitely, because you can find warped and twisted people in any profession, economic sphere, or location.
This movie could have been powerful but chose to pander to the fear mongering and hateful rhetoric in order to crowdfund and get made. I don't know if they sold their soul to simply to get made or if that was part of the agenda all along, but I do know they have convinced wide swatch of people to buy tickets to multiple showings and that while many showings have sold out most of the seats have actually been empty.
Here are some links to read some of the reporting over the movie from a variety of outlets.
https://www.npr.org/2023/07/19/1188405402/qanon-supporters-are-promoting-sound-of-freedom-heres-why
This gives me the impression that its all been a big marketing ploy. Fear mongering and political signal calling to send a message to "Evil Hollywood" who are allegedly part of this mass Illuminati/New World Order/Devil Worshipping pact of Democrats profiteering from child trafficking. Such utter bullshit ruined any credibility the film might have had for me.
Reading comments from people extolling the virtues of the film has also brough to light a glaring hypocrisy because while they offer loads of hypothetical sympathy for the Honduran father whose children are abducted, most of these same people are quick to scream GO HOME! to immigrants wishing to flee such danger and pursue a better life here in the United States.
The people spending money buying multiple tickets to multiple showings and urging others to do the same to send "Evil Hollywood" a message are also the ones angry that desperate families are gathered at the border trying to find a better life.
And I'm sure there are a select few just trying to support the movie hoping somehow some of the funds find their way to helping victims of child trafficking. To that I say there are far better way than by supporting these radical conspiracy theorists and greedy profiteers raking in millions by exploiting a real problem.
Here are a few I found ...
https://www.responsiblesourcingtool.org/
https://www.dhs.gov/blue-campaign
https://www.ncptf.org/post/31-ways-to-help-prevent-human-trafficking
You can report suspected human trafficking to federal law enforcement by calling 1-866-347-2423. You can get help from the National Human Trafficking Hotline at 1-888-373-7888.
Again I feel like the spirit of the movie and the man it was based are are legit and the cause is worthy of attention and resources but the way the film has been marketed and the asinine conspiracies tossed in without supporting evidence tainted what could have been a powerful, far reaching movie that transcended politics.
Shine On
This piece first appeared in the 2015 Edition of Top O' Texas Football Magazine.
Shine On
By Travis Erwin
They stand tall, stoic. Day after day they absorb the unrelenting punishment bestowed upon them. Sun beats down on their skin. The wind pushes at them, at least in this part of the world. Rain, sleet, hail, ice-storms and blowing grit attack, but still they stand upright and tall in every Texas town. I am of course, talking about the famed Friday Night Lights that give this state a huge part of its identity.
They are inanimate objects forgotten for most of the year. Yet, they loom large in communities from Texline, down to Terlingua, and on over Tyler way. Whether they tower above small aluminum bleachers, or huge stadiums built and carved into the landscape, they shine down upon our pride, our joy, our hope, and our fear. No one wants to lose to their cross-town town rival or that neighboring town.
Friday Night Lights. We flock to them. We feel the power and allure of them. If you’re holding this thick magazine in your hands you can bet they mean something to you. But how many of us ever pause to think what it takes to turn those lights on?
No, I’m not talking about the dude that literally throws the switch prior to game time. I am talking about what gives these lights the magic that draws crowds, inspires books, and creates movies. True magic, not the slight of hand smoke and mirrors of a stage act, but genuine wonder and awe. The stuff of dreams.
It begins on the couch. Father and son watching a Cowboys game. Or on those family trips to Lubbock and College Station on one of those crisp, fall days. Maybe it is a game of catch in the backyard with a brother, a cousin, or that kid down the street. The where is as varied as the colors and mascots of the many teams that line up to play each Friday night, but there is one common thread … it begins with a love of the game. The sound of a crowd, the feel of the leather, the rush of competition. But that is not enough to turn on the lights.
It is hours of overtime, or the sacrifice of one less meal out on the town as young families and single parents scrimp and save so they can sign their boys up for youth football. Maybe the kid themselves sells candy bars to family, friends, and neighbors. Or maybe it is not youth football, but soccer, or baseball, or wrestling, or track, which first captures a young boy’s heart and feeds the flame. No matter what conjures those competitive juices and builds coordination, eventually a kid must decide they want to shine on the brightest stage out there. They must say to themselves … I want to stand beneath those Friday Night Lights.
But still it is not enough to turn on those lights. The sacrifices of parents and caregivers from money, to time volunteering as coaches, to shuttling their offspring to and from practice. The hard work of the kids themselves. That is all part of the magic, but it is not the whole story.
It takes communities and taxpayers of hardworking men and women to fund the school. It takes the drive and passion of the teachers that will take these young men and push and shape and mold them into football players worthy of stepping beneath those lights. It takes car washes, and camaraderie and booster clubs and cheerleaders both before and during the game to rouse spirit in fans and towns. It takes the love of family, and friends and the pride of towns and alumni. It takes refs driving two maybe three hours to do a thankless job. It takes coaches, both the head man and his assistants, missing valuable time with their own families to best prepare their adopted sons for Friday night. It takes parents making long drives across the sparse Texas landscape. Drives that begin in the years before the bright lights come on. Drives when they are 7th, 8th graders. Freshman and JV.
Yes, it takes a long time before the lights shine bright.
It takes sweat, tears, money, and motivation. It takes love and pride and hope to turn those lights on.
So this fall when you look up and you see those swirling moths and flying insects do not think of them as bugs flocking to a light -- think of them as God's smallest creatures gathering in the glow of a true spectacle that only those who have fought so hard and so long to illuminate.
Think of how special those Friday Night Lights truly are.
Grey Hair and Powdered Sugar
Been a while since I've chimed in here. There are a lot of reasons for that including the fact most people simply don't take time to read blog posts these days. We’re all too busy binge-watching, and skimming social media to truly sit down and read longer forms. Sadly this applies to books as well and yet I continue to write. Though since moving to California the siren song of screenwriting has begun whispering in my ear and little by little I am doing more of that.
Currently I am sitting in a Dunkin Donuts typing this as the powdered remains of a Bavarian Kreme decorates my beard. The beard is longer these days but also has a bit more of its own white adornment.
What else is new? Well my latest novel, THE GOOD FORTUNE OF BAD LUCK is out as of yesterday.
The novel is available in paperback or eBook.
I wrote the first words on this book more than twenty years ago so like most of my writing it has taken an arduous path to publication. It is a story if expectations versus realities and how we often initially think of something as bad luck that in the ends leads us to happiness.
The characters are everyday people facing everyday problems and this is the heart of who I am as a writer. I strive to be somewhere between the Richard Russo's, Kent Haruf's, Anne Tyler's of the literary world, and the Jennifer Weiner's, Jodi Picoult's, Kristin Hannah's. Meaning I want some literacy sensibilities with strong emotional readability and everyday relevance that is easy to identify with.
This is what I work to achieve and I am not suggesting I've found the writing success of those talented authors but I am working to get there and I thank all of you who have been walking that journey with me for years now. If you are new here I thank you for that as well. Writing in a vacuum is tough, but given how long it takes to create and publish a novel it does often feel like throwing words into the void.
THE GOOD FORTUNE OF BAD LUCK was born from my own superstitions and strong belief in luck. As I've aged I realize we mostly make our own luck, both good and bad.
I hope all of you have been on the good side of fortune these last few years, though even as I type I think how crazy the world has been for a while now. The politics, the virus, the growing divide among us. I don't know how to fix any of that but I think we all tend to forget our humanity when confronted with things we don't like or agree with. I struggle with this myself and have sadly lost friends I care about in these tumultuous times. They will tell you I cast them aside for political differences, but I disagree. I can debate politics, but I have no ZERO tolerance for racism, bigotry, or intolerance because these are not truly political issues in my mind but rather the difference between good and evil.
I will argue and debate the benefits of small government versus big government, taxation, and even personal freedoms, but not at the expense of human rights. But I digress, this isn't meant to be that kind of post. Simply freethinking as I type.
My belief is that fiction can help us better understand humanity. It exposes us to people different than ourselves. It exposes us to other cultures and places. It exposes us to the emotions and motivations and makes it clear despite these differences we all have the same basic needs and wants.
When we are reminded of that,we are more compassionate and understanding and that is why reading is so important. Yes even when the story and characters are made up because while fiction is not the truth it is born from humanity, because no matter what you think of we writers (yeah we are a bit weird because we live in our heads so much of the time) we are indeed human.
This is my longwinded way of asking you to check out the story of Destiny and Dillon and their quest for Good Fortune amid Bad Luck. I hope you will find some heart to their story as well as some insight into your own thinking.
The story has been with me for a long time and I am eager to share it with y'all.
Put that Shoe On!
Most struggling writers have at some point gotten a rejection and thought something along the lines of, What the hell do THEY know. I could get where I wanted to be if it wasn't for all these blind Literary agents.
That is not a healthy or productive way to see the process.
It is easy for us to only see our side of the issue. Writers are told things like, You have one paragraph, or at the most one page to catch an agents notice. That sounds harsh but what do you do when perusing the local brick and mortar?
Do you pick up a novel by some author unknown to you and start reading? I do and if that first paragraph, that first page do not grab my attention I put it back down and reach for something else. So why should agents read be any different?
But THEY are the only thing standing in the way of my dream?
That is the same mentality as … My son Timmy would be a straight A student if it wasn't for that teacher that doesn't like him, or Our team would have won state if it wasn't for those sorry refs, or I didn't get promoted like so-and-so because I'm not a brownnoser like they are. To that I say grow up, take responsibility for your own failures, or if failure is too harsh of word call them your setbacks. Life is full of them. Find a way to deal with it.
Agents don't want to reject you. yeah I know this is hard to believe sometimes, but rejections do nothing but cost agents time and as they say time is money. Agents take queries because they are looking to find things to represent. Things that they can sell, Things that will stick around for years and become the next To Kill a Mockingbird and earn them money for years to come. Heck, most of them are even willing to represent a lot of the genre fiction which has very little potential to earn off the backlist. They want to find things to sell. That is the bottom line. Sure there may be a few sadistic individuals out there who get off on crushing others dreams, but Karma is a nasty thing and I don't think an agent with that mentality has a very long future in the business. At least I hope not.
I remember my very first personalized rejection. I can still quote it word for word. After months of the dreaded form letter I opened the return SASE and right away noticed a handwritten note penned in blue ink, Your meandering storytelling and excessive verbiage do not appeal to me now or never.
Sure his words hurt but you know what he was right. It took my the better part of a year to realize that. Looking back I realize I had no business even querying at the time. I wasn't ready.
As of late I've been fortunate for several agents to take notice. Write bits of encouragement and offer suggestions how to improve. I've even had a few say this novel isn't quit right for me but I'd love to look at your next project. Yes even a rejection can feel pretty good when an agent makes it clear that you aren't simply wasting your time and theirs.
And yes they miss the boat. Nearly every agent I've ever met who has been in the business for a while has admitted to passing on a manuscript that went onto best seller status or to win a prestigious award or make somebody a good bit of money. But they didn't say no because they wanted to hold that author down, they did it because they realized they were not the person to rep that title.
So remember, unless you've slept with some agents wife, or ran over her poodle, or been stupid enough to get on your blog and run her or one of his/her clients down, it is highly doubtful that the person on the other end of that rejection letter had a vendetta to destroy your future. And if you have done any of the aforementioned things, you might start thinking about a good pseudonym.
Mental Constipation
Thought I'd discuss every writer’s worst fear -- WRITERS BLOCK.
Now I've never had what I'd consider true writers block, which as I define it would be having a desire or need to write but not the ability to conjure up a subject, characters, plot, or even an idea.
But I do sometimes have what I'd describe as writer's hurdle. I can see and imagine where I want to go, but there an obstacle between me and the finish line. An impediment between the thoughts within my noggin and that flashing cursor on my computer.
When this happens and I find myself staring at a blank screen for ten, fifteen, or twenty minutes I have a choice to make. Forget trying to get it right and just get something down. Sometimes this works and I write myself over the hurdle. If that doesn't work I have a few other constructive tactics that help, playing Farmville, doom scrolling, or banging your hea agaisnt the wall are not among them.
1) Listen to music. I favor Texas songwriters who tell a good story through their lyrics. Such as Robert Earl Keen, Charlie Robison, Cory Morrow. But I like nearly all types of music as long as the person singing actually writes the majority of the songs they perform. I have very little respect for the pretty faces that have decent enough voices but no heart behind their songs. But don't get me started because that is another blog for another day.
2) Read. Diving into a good story and getting involved with someone else's characters sometimes allows the voices I created to become clearer. But be careful of letting their voice becomes yours.
3) Drive. A good long car ride by myself is always good for my writing. But maybe not for the other drivers on the road once I get my mind wrapped totally around the story in my head.
4) Shower- A really long hot shower has away of melting away my mental barriers and allowing the flow to resume.
So how about the rest of your writers out there? Do you get writer's block or writer's hurdle, and how do you combat this hideous disease?
Jerry does his MS Telethon. Whoopi, Billy, and Robin host Comic Relief, Willie puts on Farm Aid. Where is Writers Relief and who should be the big name behind it?
Unliked
Years back, I eagerly ordered a copy of a novel. A novel written by a fellow blogger. Not a blogger that I read everyday or that commented regularly on my posts, but a blogger that many of my closest friends often touted so I had read enough of her posts to know she was a very talented writer.
And her book was very well written, but man did I hate her protagonists. Both of them. Still finished the novel hoping for character growth. And grow they did ... on my nerves. Oh the arc was there, just like it should be in good writing and this was good writing … it was just about people I hated.
I've always felt the same way about Holden Caulfield though I know many people who think of Catcher in the Rye as the ultimate American novel. I suspect those same people voted for Trump, because I imagine Holden grew from that entitled snotty teenage boy to be an entitled pugnacious fool and if you admire those qualities in a human then Trump was clearly your candidate.
Which brings me to this. Reading that novel I realized I did not care for this particular blogger. Her ideals were not shared by me, though I had never articulated that thought until I read the manifestations of her ideals within a fictional character.
No, I am not saying that every character in fiction is a direct representative of the author who created them, though this was the case between the blogger and this novel. You will just have to trust me on this as I can't explain without revealing too much or being more longwinded than I already am.
Since that time social media has exploded and now we read a deluge of thoughts and opinions from every one we know. The bloggers I met and read were people I had no prior relationship with so it was fairly quick and painless to know if I wanted to keep reading their posts or not. And it did not really matter if I chose to move on.
This choice is not so easy anymore.
I have had to disassociate from a few long time friends and even some family. I do not do so easily, nor do I run from a healthy debate, but some people are looking simply to agitate. They prefer to poke, prod, and belittle rather than discuss or debate rationally. Hate is venomous and every knows it is not wise to play with rattlesnakes. I suppose the bushes have always been full, but now everyone has a outlet to rattle their tail.
Me included. Maybe this post feels like hate and bigotry and you will never again read this blog. If so I bid you adieu, but really I write this because I am curious in this heightened era of divisiveness have you had to distance yourself from people you otherwise had a relationship with? And if so, what does it take before you make that decision?
If it's Good Enough for Cher, Michael Jordan, and Garth ...
... it's good enough for me.
Don't call it a comeback
I've been here for years
Me and LL are cool, so I'm sure the esteemed Mr. J won't mind me borrowing a couple of lines from his lyrics. What I am trying to say here people is that I am once again going to be using this space to speak, share, rant, and ramble.
I tried to use a blog on my dedicated webpage, but the format was cumbersome to post at and even worse for folks wishing to comment or take part in the conversation.
So much has transpired since I last post here, personally and professionally. I will do my best to catch y'all up over time, but we will focus on the latter for now..
I moved out of Texas, and now live in sunny Southern California where I write full-time. Freelance articles of a wide variety, as well as continued work and promotion of my fiction.
I released a new novel WAITING ON THE RIVER which is available in print and ebook and a collaborative collection of short stories titled Hemingway that is a companion piece with an album of the same name by musician, Dan Johnson. The stories in that collection expand on the songs while telling a bigger story delving into the humanity of the choices we are all forced to make in life.
I will be back to catch y'all up when I can and I will also be posting some writing samples that were once published elsewhere but are now unavailable so that potential clients can have a place to read a variety of my work.
Hope to hear from y'all so please take a moment to say hello, ask, a questions, or chime in with a comment.
Jed, The Joads, & Me
I didn't strike gold, or get blown west by dark dust bowl clouds, but in the Fall of 2017 I made pretty much the same migration as the Clampett's, Woody Guthrie, and Faulkner's famous family.
Texas to California
Most people that know me would say me and Texas fit together like boots and jeans, but sometimes life takes us places we never thought we'd go. Sometimes things fall apart so better things can come along, and make no mistake that my life is better out here in Southern California than it was back in the windy Texan Panhandle.
My journey started way back in the fifth grade but of course I had no idea back then that it would lead me to the Golden State. I met Connie in Mrs. Davis's class. She hadn't gone to elementary school with me before then because she lived in a neighboring district, but her old school did not have a Gifted and Talented Learners program so she transferred over to Oakdale where I went to school We had no whirlwind puppy love romance, but we were friends until her family moved to California our seventh grade year.
More than two decades later we reconnected through the powers of social media. This eventually led to me and my two boys moving west and it has been great for us all.
Food, Funk, & a Few Folks
I am told I have an accent, but if you ask me I sound just like everyone else. Nevertheless, the first question I get asked is, "Where are your from?" Guesses range from Arkansas, to Georgia, Tennessee and often Louisiana probably because I often wear a New Orleans Saints cap. (By the way if you are reading this Roger Goodell you and your corrupt NFL officials all suck. I stick by my theory that the NFL Commissioner caught some venereal disease from a Bourbon Street prostitute during a bygone Super Bowl in the city and has held a private grudge against my beloved Saints ever since)
But I digress.
The second question I get asked is, "What do you miss most about Texas?"
My mom tops that list, but she is finally coming out to visit at the end of the month. Friends are also on the list but the power of social media and with a few visits back and forth and it is not hard to maintain those relationships.
Live Music is not quite the same beyond my cherished Texas dive bars, but I have found a number of cool venues, including The Cave up in the mountains at Big Bear, which hands out warm pork rinds as you wait in line to get inside.
Little-by-little immersing myself the the Southern California Music scene. I have also been fortunate enough to see Kris Kristofferson, John Prine, and a few other of my longtime favorites that simply do not play in or around Amarillo.
That brings us to food.
Man oh man do I miss Texas cooking. Not always, because I have my smoker and grill and to stoke my own wood box I can cook up some damn tasty meat. Good thing too, because what passes for BBQ out here in California is a damn shame.
Tex-Mex is few and far between, but the chain Cafe Rio does the subgenre justice and they easily have the best queso I have found in the state.
Californians do love their avocado this and mango that. And for the love of Gawd stop putting fruit in sweet tea. Raspberry, passion, watermelon. All of that shit is perfume water not suitable for hydration. McCalisters Deli can you please bring your southern sweet tea to SoCal?
And don't even get me started on quality french fries. The venerable Golden Light Cafe in Old Route 66 in Amarillo, Blue Sky, and Coyote Bluff all serve up a hand-cut style of fry that might as well be a Brontosaurus in California.
In-n-Out is not Whataburger. I don't hate their small little round burgers, but I have to eat two if I want to be satisfied, And their bland fries are palatable, when dipped in the imported salty greatness that is Whataburger ketchup.
I have railed enough for today, but soon I will be back to highlight the things I love most about my life here in So Cal.
The World is Full of 'Em
How come you rarely see a Porsche with tinted windows? I'll give you my opinion later but for now let me tell you about my ride into town this morning.
I'm sitting at a stop light listening to the radio when I hear this engine revving over and over. I glance to my right and there is this guy staring at me like a sixteen year old boy out on a Friday night in his daddy's car. Only this guy is mid-fifty at least. With a salt and pepper beard. He looked like a college professor. He revs the engine again and grins at me. Now I'm not much of a car guy so while I realize he's driving some kind of silver sports car I didn't pick up on the fact it was a Porsche, until the light turns green and he takes off squealing his tires. He makes it all of about three blocks before we hit another red light.
Again, the same routine only this time I shake my head at his pathetic attempt to relive some bygone dream of his. This time a car turns right off the side street just as the light turns green so I'm out in front while he is stuck behind traffic. Now keep in mind I'm only doing about thirty five or forty miles an hour. Not trying to race this character, I'm just trying to get home so I can get on the computer and do some work.
So this idiot catches me in half a mile or so, pulls up beside me, grins like a shit-eating monkey, and shoots off like rocket, obviously proud to have outran me and my 2008 F-150 with his brand new, sticker-still-on-the-window, sleek, silver Porsche.
That's when it occurs to me. People who buy these kind of cars don't tint the windows because then the whole world wouldn't be able to look at them and whisper … Oooh look at the guy. Of course we ain’t saying what they hope we are saying.
Insomnia is a Terrible Thing to Waste
I stayed up late last night writing and I actually made a good bit of progress on the novel, but that in itself presented a problem. When I finally did shuffle off to bed, I couldn't shut my brain off. Bits of dialogue, strange words, and snippets of planned scenes whirled around my brain like dirty bathwater circling the drain.
Hour after hour slipped by and before I knew I was delirious with fatigue, but still analyzing things I'd wrote or planned to write. Then I got stupid.
I wondered things like can a person be flimmed without getting flammed, or flammed and not flimmed?
And my postal worker background probably is to blame for this one, but if a fellow is happy, content and eager to head off to work can he be described as gruntled? And can someone be combobulated?
Not to BE outdone. Have you ever been wildered or fuddled? Yeah me neither.
Thanks for humoring this sleep deprived bonus brought to you by my troubled mind.
Good Beer, Good Music, and Bad Bad Marketing
I'm not going to lie. I am an opinionated person. I'm also pretty outspoken even when my opinion is not all that popular.
I am critical of certain things more than others.
Beer.
Literature.
Music.
Sports.
Humanity and basic kindness for others.
In no particular order, these are things I am passionate about. The later at times spills over into politics but don't worry this spot isn't about politics. It is about critics. Like me. Sometimes I think those of us with with staunch opinions are labeled negatively. Sometime we are called snobs. Heck, I've even described myself as a beer snob, but I think technically that is the wrong term.
Without consulting Merriam or his friend Webster I will say snobbery strikes me as a bedmate of judgemental and judgemental I am not.
Oh, I hear you skeptics out there. How can an opinionated critic be anything but judgmental?
Easy. Before I pass down my opinion. Before I criticize. I consider one question ... What is the intended audience?
Let's go back to beer. Yeah, I think nearly all the mass produced swill of Bud and Coors and Miller is nothing more than the glorified urine of of their respective CEO. But hey, it’s obvious there are millions of adoring fans. I mean people have to drink something while they are listening to the corporate manufactured music of people like Luke Bryan and Florida Georgia Line? One bad but shiny and heavily marketed recipe deserves another just as a finely crafted Russian Imperial Stout goes well with a perfectly grilled medium rare steak while listening to some fine tunes by Jason Isbell.
Or maybe you want something a little less heavy. Go ahead sip a good ol' Shiner Bock while you listen to Dan Johnson and the Salt Cedar Rebels regale the fine state of Texas. This duo pairs nicely with a number one combo from Whataburger, or a plate full of Tacos to gain the full Lone Star experience.
I get ticked when companies and artists try to inflate their intended audience by luring in unsuspecting others. Like 50 Shades. I get it. It sold millions of copies, but that doesn't make it good. More people mock it than praise it and that is because some publishing executive decided that eroticized Twilight fan fiction needed to be be thrust hard and deep against every lonely and horny woman in America who is tied down to a job, family, or household. But one kind of bondage isn't exactly like the other.
Sadly the novel has now tainted the erotica genre by draping the finely crafted books under the same pleather hood. Just as people hear the words country music and think Nashville and the whine of Rascal Flatts or the melodramatic moaning of Tim McGraw. Here in Texas country music means Robert Earl Keen and Willie Nelson. Waylon and William Clark Green. People that put emotion above commotion in both their lyrics and performances.
So yeah, while I am of the opinion that the corporate record company music is crap, that beer sold by companies that market their fancy bottle and cans harder than they do the product inside is nothing more than pablum for the masses, that most of the stuff we are TOLD to like and buy is a scam. I recognize there is an audience who don't want to learn, explore, try new things. This is corporate America's intended audience.
And I'm not among them.
The Grey Matter
No, not that grey matter. What I'm talking about is the stuff that makes for great fiction. The inconsistencies of life. The conflicting dilemmas we are all confronted with. The times when there is no easy choice -- where every decision comes with consequences. Sometimes grave consequences.
I recently reread T.C. Boyles, The Tortilla Curtain which is a marvelous example of unbiased fiction. In this particular case the author tells the story of a married couple of undocumented immigrants trying to survive and find their slice of the American Dream on the outskirts of LA. As a counterpoint he uses a couple that on the surface is already living that dream. Through the eyes of these characters we examine the border issue that seems to be getting larger everyday. He also uses some great metaphors but I won't spoil the novel by saying anymore.
When you stop to think about it there isn't a whole lot in this world that isn't grey matter. At least if you have an open mind and REALLY look at all the nuances. There are always choices to be made that require a bit of debate. Pros versus Cons. Even on the most polar of issues. The ones that often divide the country.
Politics - I dare you to find a candidate that agrees or disagrees with every single thing you do. In the end we choose the one that fits us best, or vote along party lines.
Religion - Sure you could say this is a black and white issue, Either you believe or you don't. But Who do you believe in? God, Allah, Buddha ... and I know this is dangerous territory, but surely every one regardless of inclination has had a doubt somewhere along the line.
Maybe not in the grand scheme of things. I'm not saying all of you are non-believers, but you've had to stop and think, Is buying a lottery ticket a sin? ... Do I really need to tithe the full ten percent? ... What about a beer every now and then.
I'm going to stop here, because I'm already in over my head and this is a conversation for a whole other type of blog page, but still, There is a lot of grey matter out in this world and I happen to like my fiction chocked full of it. Hearing two sides to a complex issue educates me gives me something to think about, and yes, I do believe that well done fiction can be educational ... as long as the author gives the reader sufficient cause to trust the words on the page. But give me cause as a reader to lose that confidence and I no longer care about the words you wrote. So dive into that grey matter but please do so responsibly. Don't drink and drive. Call your mother every Sunday, and don't forget to tip the waitstaff. Good night and good reading.
Flying Sasquatch Airlines
I've been making a lot of airplane reservations lately but I must confess … I hate to fly.
Actually that's not true. It's airports and sometimes other travelers that I despise. The flying and getting there quickly are the only good things about the whole ordeal. I've told you all of that, just so I can tell you the following story about the time I swore of flying forever. Of course like most of my resolutions it didn't last, but for better than five years I kept my pledge and this is why.
In April of 1998 I was headed to Florida. I drove to Oklahoma City and flew out of there since the flight was half of what it would be direct from Amarillo, Texas where I was then living. Of course the flight had a long layover in St. Louis.
That afternoon we were finally boarding the plane for the final leg of our journey when the pilot got on the intercom and told everybody to get seated ASAP because a storm is coming in and we might be able to beat it and leave before the bad weather hit.
Everybody scrambled to stow their carry-ons and find a seat. No sooner did I buckle my seat belt when the stewardess appeared and asked if I would mind relocating to the emergency exit row because FAA rules said a capable adult had to occupy those seats. Being a nice guy, I got up and moved. Whoever said no good deed ever goes unpunished must have been on an earlier flight.
Back then Southwest still had the planes where the emergency row seats faced each other. I sat next to the window, my wife was to the right of me and beside her sat a nice looking guy in a dark suit. Then they sat the people in front of us. He looked a lot like this.
Except hairier. Clad in a stained muscle shirt that only a barber could have removed from his body because the hair on his shoulders had seemingly grown over the fabric, a pair of Bermuda shorts, and a pair of flip-flops, this guy sits directly in front of me and commences talking. About absolutely nothing.
The plane taxied out on the runway and then the storm moved in. To escape conversation with George "The Animal" Steele's long lost brother I lifted a magazine high in front of my face, but this guy was not to be deterred. He kept right on talking as if I was still listening. His wife subtly tried to rein him in. Again he was not to be stopped. We sat on the tarmac for almost two hours while the plane rocked at the wind gusts, Rain slashed the fuselage, and hail beat down. How did I fill the time?
Glad you asked. By listening to this jackass. But what about your magazine? Oh, he put an end to that by reaching across and tugging down the pages so I could see him talking. He must have asked me a thousand times to guess what he did for a living. I ignored him as long as possible, but finally relented to his incessant badgering and the constant tugs on my magazine. "What? What do you do for a living?"
"Absolutely nothing."
Okay, I didn't know how to respond to that so I went back to reading. Only to be interrupted again. "My wife here is a nurse so I don't really need to make any money. We do all right just on her salary, but I do sort of have a job. I win stuff. Off the radio. I got me half a dozen phone lines and a bunch of radios set up. All I do is call up and win. Won this trip we're on as a matter of fact."
"That's good," I responded. I forgot to mention the fact that this guy has been sitting with his legs crossed and his nasty green fungus infected big toe dangling right before my eyes for over an hour as the storm raged outside.
Next he went into his Bubba Gump spiel of everything he'd ever won. 584 large pizzas, 279 movie passes, dozens of massages, sports tickets, dog grooming, flowers, lawn service, and a whole bunch of other crap I didn't care to hear about. Oh, and a brand new Firebird but he didn't have the money for insurance so he had to sell the car.
About thirty minutes into his, Things I've won speech he ran out of material. But that didn't stop him for long. Next he focused on the weather. "See those clouds out yonder. They are cumulus clouds and ... blah, blah blah."
I tuned out most of what Sasquatch said, but at this point the man to my wife's right chimed in and said, "No they're not."
The beast looked surprised to hear from an new person, but he quickly seized on the opportunity. "Sure they are, you can tell by the ...."
No you're wrong," insisted the suit wearer. For the next fifteen minutes the man politely argued with Mr. Hairy Know-It-All. Finally, Sasquatch's bride looked at the guy in the suit and said, "Hey, aren't you the weatherman on channel seven?"
"Yes I am," replied Suitman.
Now did the beast stop arguing or realize he was a fool for arguing about clouds with an actual meteorologist? Nope. Not a chance.
The rest of the flight was just as bad until we finally arrived in Orlando some four hours later than scheduled. Four or five days later while walking amid a throng of people in the United Kingdom section of Epcot who do you think I spotted headed my direction? You guessed it, so I quickly pulled my wife into a shop selling authentic and expensive English tea sets. My wife asked in a strange voice "Why did we come in here?"
I pointed out the window and said, " To avoid that guy." Just as Sasquatch walked by still clad in that same muscle shirt. As I watched the thick dark rug of his shoulders pass by I swore right then and there, that after our flight home, I'd never sail the skies again.
Some resolutions are bound to be broke, but I'm sure thankful Southwest did away with those facing seats.
The Funkster
Okay I admit. there was a time when I thought Professional Wrestling was great. No, I never thought the antics were real, or that the outcome of the matches depended on each wrestlers skill. Yes, even as a young boy I knew wrestling was fake, but I loved it anyway. Sorry Steve, but its true the matches were staged. And if you really think about it, pro wrestling has every thing that a good piece of fiction must possess.
Characters- A book needs them and wrestling has never been shy of interesting characters.
Plot- Any wrestling federation that there has ever been has dozens of plots going on. Throw out the matches and the whole thing is really one continuous soap opera.
Suspense-There was a time when I was just as eager to see who would become the next world champion. Nowadays I'm more eager to find out who the initials R.A.B belong to. For you non Harry Potter fans this is a reference to something that came out in book six.
**********************************
So yesterday I go to the gym to work off the aftermath of my long weekend. I sitting on the bike pedaling my non shrinking rear end off when a man takes the bike next to me. I look over and who do I see?
For those who do not know this is Terry Funk from the legendary Funk family that included Dory, Dory Jr, and Terry. Not only is Terry a legendary wrestler, but he has also appeared in numerous television shows and movies, including Paradise Alley with Stallone, Roadhouse with Patrick Swayze and Sam Elliott.
Amarillo isn't that big of town and Terry Funk has lived here all his life so this isn't the first time I've ran across him. Matter of fact for those of you following along with the Feedstore Chronicles, Terry Funk and Dick Murdoch another famous wrestler used to come in and buy cattle feed. Back then they pissed me off cause they would sit around and chat with Doyle, all the while spitting tobacco juice on the floor which I would have to clean up after they left.
In case you are wondering I rode the bike at level 5 for twenty minutes on a random cycle which means it simulated going up and down hills as well as level ground. Terry Funk a man thirty years my senior who can barely walk after years of abusing his body set his bike on level 9 for twenty five minutes all uphill. But I’m still pretty sure I could outrun him.
Boxers or Briefs
I do the vast majority of my writing late when my two boys are either asleep or at school, and I started this endeavor when the oldest was just a newborn. These two facts combined meant that neither of my boys fully comprehended the fact that I am a writer.
Every night before bed I read them something and for a good while now, The Captain Underpants books by Dav Pilkey have been at the top of their list. Nothing is funnier to a four and six year old boy than an underwear clad superhero that relies on wedgie power.
I told you all of that just so I could relay this story. Every Monday evening I attend a critique group. We meet read a bit of our work offer suggestions and comments on each others work. So a Monday or two back I'm getting ready to leave and my oldest asks where I'm going.
"To a meeting," I say.
"You always go to meetings," he responds.
This is almost like a script at this point so I know what is coming next.
"Can I go with you?"
"No, the meeting is for adults only."
Usually this the end of our discussion, but this time he looks up at me and asks, "But what do you do at your meeting?" I explained that we all look at each others books and help make corrections, kind of like his kindergarten teacher does his school work. He responded by picking up a book from the nearby coffee table and saying, "Are you taking this one?" I laughed and said no I'm taking my book, the one I've been writing."
His blue eyes widened with awe. "You wrote a book? Can I read it?"
"No, Daddy's books are for adults."
For half a second there I was really cool but already I could see the light in his eyes dimming so I explained that some books are for kids, Like Captain Underpants and that some are for adults."
His eyes widened again as he said, "You mean a person writes Captain Underpants?"
I nodded and said, "Yes, a man named Dav Pilkey."
That is when my son stared straight up at me and said, "I'd rather got to a meeting with him."
Buy that man an Espresso
I heard this story on my Sirius satellite radio on the way home from work. I looked it up and read the article. You can follow the link but I'll paraphrase here for the sake of discussion.
Basically a guy got shot in the head from a small caliber weapon while sleeping. Then four hours later he awoke to find blood. The police said the bullet lost velocity going through the wall of his West Virginia mobile home. Someone had sprayed four or five rounds into his house.
Okay I'm a sound sleeper but I thin I'd wake up at the sound of a single gunshot much less four five. And when a bullet smacked in the head, whether it had lost velocity or not, I'd wake up and I'd be pissed, or curled up in the fetal position crying like a baby. Hey, it's easy to be tough until you take a bullet to the head.
By the way, near the end of the article it does say he'd been asleep about an hour after a night out on the town. Now there is a euphemism for ya' .