Oh look! Shiny!

This blogging thing is really taking off!

2012-01-19T10:26:00.000-08:00

I'm a machine, I tell you.

The plunge

2011-10-28T11:05:00.000-07:00

Well, I did it. I took the plunge.

I've ventured into the world of self-publishing.

I've learned a ton already, and there is so much more to learn.

The most important lesson is who good my friends are to me. I can not, in a million years, express what I've felt over the past 24 hours since I hit Save and Publish and became a self-published author.

After I collect my thoughts, and figure out what comes next, I'll have a more substantial post about this whole process.

For now, visit Voices in the Field and let me know what you think.

j

I don't have cancer

2011-09-06T09:47:00.000-07:00

I have LPR. And something else. Something about elephant pachyderm something-something. I have to look it up yet, and figure out what's next. Doc says there's not really anything they can do about the LPR other than treat and adjust my eating and drinking habits. But, I don't have throat cancer. Of this, he's sure.

This is a journey, into sound

2011-08-31T10:54:00.000-07:00

Sept. 6 still seems a long time away.

In the meantime, I've been driving myself insane. Part of me wants to believe this is all in my mind. But the pain seems real. The difficulty swallowing, the hoarseness, the cough, the mucous, the swollen glands . . . they seem real.

My mind is playing tricks on me. I've replayed my funeral in my head a thousand times. I've spelled out my wishes to my wife. I've checked and double checked my life insurance policy. I'm preparing for the worst.

And, yet, it could just be a scratchy voice.

Do I believe that? No. I believe it's the worst possible scenario.

Is it Sept. 6 yet?

In so many ways, I just want to know. One way or the other, the not knowing is more difficult I think.

j

2011-08-26T21:49:00.000-07:00

I remember the day my mother died, not because of the significance of losing a parent, but because of my reaction to it.

My mother had been sick seemingly my entire life. As far back as my memories go, all I see is this frail, pale woman with translucent skin and a soft voice. I know there were times when she wasn't sick, but even in those times, my memories are of a quiet, reflective woman. She was gentle with this easy air about her, not so much aloof, but more of a Devil-may-care freedom that allowed her to exist in a moment.

On the morning that she passed, I was in school when the voice over the intercom called me to the office. I looked at my teacher and said, "My mom just died." There was no way I could have known, but I did. After 11 years of watching and waiting for the inevitable, it had finally come. And I just knew it.

I never cried.

It was like business. I had lived it for so long, it was just another part of the process.

At the funeral, I felt out of place. All these people around me were crying. My father held my sister and I close, perhaps to comfort us, but I think it was more so we could comfort him. Although I knew I should cry, I couldn't.

It wasn't that I didn't care, or that I wasn't sad. In fact, quite the opposite. My mother and I had a bond I never shared with my father. Likewise, my father had a bond with my sister he never had with me. I was heartbroken. I was crushed. I was completely lost. And for that, at 11 years old, I shut down.

Nearly 30 years have gone by, and while there have been times along the way that a particular song or a milestone passes that reminds me of her and a tear forms, I've never fully grieved her loss.

I wonder how my son will handle my death. Will it crush him, or will he bury it inside and accept it as part of the deal we make with life. We only have a moment to be, and then it's gone.

Closet Smoker

2011-08-23T14:16:00.000-07:00

I'm coming clean. I'm a closet smoker. Have been for 25 years. Not solid. There have been some breaks along the way; a few months here, a year there. But mostly I've smoked a couple cigarettes a day, maybe a pack or two a month since I was 15 years old.

It started about six months ago, this sore throat, a change in my voice. Gravelly and hoarse. And this terrible pain from my ear to my neck. Drainage, phlegm, mucus, a slight cough. Pressure in my chest.

I went to my internal doctor today. Yes, I know he doesn't specialize in oncology or ear/nose/throat stuff, but HMO . . . well, you know the story. So I start there, not hoping for answers, but hoping to at least start the process.

He sends me to an ENT doc and tells me to lose weight and stop smoking. Really doc? Really? That's your advice? Eight years of medical school and 30 years of practice, and your advice is to lose weight and quit smoking?

He tells me it could be throat cancer, though he doubts it. Or it could be an infection caused by acid reflux. Um, again, really? Fancy initials at the beginning and end of your name, and this is your diagnosis? Guess what, I have Google and Wikipedia . . . and I came up with the EXACT SAME FUCKING DIAGNOSIS!

Anyway, I'm on terminal hold (should I use terminal when talking about cancer?) with the ENT trying to make an appointment. Hopefully they'll tell me something the Interwebs can't.

Until then,

cough, cough, wheeze, wheeze.

j

Upon further reflection . . .

2011-08-10T10:30:00.000-07:00

I've had several good friends tell me lately what an idiot I am.

The publishing world is not what it once was. I hold no illusions about being a world-famous author, but that shouldn't be my goal. It shouldn't have ever been my goal. Don't we write to tell stories? Who of us gets to make it rich in this racket?

Some people like what I write. I'm not a world beater. I'm not for everyone. But I do think I tell nice stories. Some of them funny, some of them bizarre, some of them from the heart. I don't write to a genre, although some of my stories are written in a particular genre.

So I've decided to push forward . . . as my own publisher. There's really nothing to lose, if I've already thrown in the towel. If no one reads me, or critics say my work is crap, I'm no worse off than I am now.

This fall, look for my first collection of short stories on Smashwords and Kindle. Shortly after that, I will publish my first YA novel, and then my first adult novel. If I'm inspired to continue, I plan on putting my second adult novel and second in the YA series out maybe by this time next year.

Thanks for your support and encouragement.

Time to let go

2011-07-26T09:50:00.000-07:00

I love writing.

I hate the business of writing.

I have a really good friend, Gae Polisner (you can read her blog here, and here). She's a fantastic writer. Got a sweet book deal with a world-famous publisher. Her book is getting glowing reviews all over the place. Librarians, teachers, students, critics. She calls it her "quiet little book." She even learned at least one school district is going to be using her book as part of their curriculum next year.

I tell you all this not to sell Gae's book for her, but to show the side of the business that just doesn't work for me.

Gae is still beating the streets trying to get a second book published. How can this be? How can you have a book that gets huge critical success, and not be able to get another deal? It doesn't make sense.

The answer is: Unless you're New York Times Bestseller stuff, you're still nobody.

Gae is a New York attorney with contacts beyond anything this simple boy from Kansas City will ever have. Gae can hop in her car and run to THE city (yes, THE city) and talk to agents, publishers, book critics face-to-face. How am I supposed to compete in a market where I'm so isolated from THE scene (yes, THE scene) that I couldn't talk face-to-face with an agent, publisher, or critic unless it were for the Bovine Monthly Review?

This business isn't designed to reward the author.

Years ago, I used to have a writing partner (Ron Brown) with whom I shared goals, manuscripts, scribbles and scratch. We were chasing the dream. We kept telling each other, "This business is designed to weed out the ones who don't have the heart to keep going. But we're going to make it. We're going to be strong. We WILL persevere."

That was a long time ago. Too many years. And now I have to admit, this business chewed me up and spit me out. It proved I don't have the heart to keep going, to be strong, to persevere.

And, so, I'm not chasing the dream any longer. I love writing. I'll write for me. I'll write for my kids. I'll write because I like to tell stories. But no more chasing.

I hate the business of writing.

Shuffled

2011-06-20T07:42:00.000-07:00

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.

It's been a while since I last blogged.

The open call for submissions from agents was a big bust. Not a single query. What is wrong with these agents that they aren't out there pounding the streets looking for the next small- to mid-sized thing? I've been thinking of changing my last name to Palin so I can get a book deal.

Or at the very least appear on Dancing with the Stars. Of course, when I dance, I look like a wounded cat having a seizure. I've met epileptics with more rhythm.

But that's not what I'm here to talk about today. I'm here to talk about focus and goals.

I have none.

Well, thanks for stopping by.

j

Open Submission Period for Agents

2011-04-27T20:48:00.000-07:00

In honor of my 40th birthday, I'm offering agents a one-time open submission period for the month of May. You can contact me via e-mail and propose how you'll represent me.

What I'm looking for:

An agent who represents adult or young adult fiction. I write both, and don't care which path I take for a career. I would happily do both, or if you think it works better with your business plan, I'm willing to stick with one or the other. Wow me with your ideas.

What I'm not looking for:

I don't need a mom, but I do need someone who understands the business. If you're just getting started, I wish you luck and hope that there are authors out there who are willing to take you on, but I'm at a point in my career where I need someone with a little more experience and knowledge of the industry. However, I'm not opposed to hearing good ideas from new agents, so put a package together and, again, wow me.

No attachments please, and make sure to put "QUERY" in the subject line.

You can send proposals to:

jfielder13@yahoo.com

Looking Down the Barrel of a Gun . . .

2011-04-26T10:58:00.000-07:00

I'm going through a bit of a personal crisis of faith. Not like God faith, though there's probably a bit of that as well.

I have a very manic personality, going from one interest to the next with the frequency of a police band scanner. A month ago, I wanted to be a writer. Last week, I wanted to be a graphic designer.

Today, I want to disappear.

I tell my kids: You can't spell Daddy without A.D.D.

An old friend once told me that you search for yourself in your 20s, you discover yourself in your 30s, and you define yourself in your 40s. I'm looking down the barrel of 40, and I haven't figured out who I am yet.

And worse yet, I have no idea what I'm going to be when I grow up.

Every day, I seem to slip further and further away from whom I'm supposed to become. I become less and less sure of my goals, or how to get there. My passion for creating, for exploring, for discovering new ideas is waning with every passing moment, and I don't know how to get back.

Think of your life as a marriage to yourself. Right now, I've fallen out of love with me, and I'm thinking about divorce. Perhaps I should try a trial separation. I have this overwhelming sense that it's time for me to go, and that I'll never find myself stuck where I am.

Or maybe that's just the A.D.D. talking.

Reading with Gae Polisner

2011-02-23T10:37:00.000-08:00

“Children are made readers on the laps of their parents.” - Emilie Buchwald

One of my greatest joys in life is reading to my kids. There is nothing like sharing words with them, and watching their eyes as they scan the pages. My daughter doesn’t let me read to her much. She insists on reading to me, which is its own thrill for me. But my oldest son has always been my reading companion. We are currently tackling the Harry Potter series together; our promise that he will let me read the final word, whether he is 10, 13, or 21.

While I was writing my first YA book, it meant the world to me to run each chapter by Grant as I read. The look on his face or the questions he asked let me know if I had done well, or if I’d missed the mark. I find there’s a fascinating link between the author as parent and children as editors.

Last year, I was honored to read an early draft of Gae Polisner’s first book, The Pull of Gravity. (Farrar, Straus and Giroux (BYR) (May 10, 2011)). Gae was kind enough to spend a few minutes with me talking about that connection between her as a parent author, and her children as early readers/editors.

Jeff: You started off as an attorney, then you became a mother. Why did you want to throw "writer" onto your list of jobs?

Gae: I didn't set out to be an attorney. Quite to the contrary. I was a totally creative kid, always writing and acting and making artsy-crafty things. I wrote my first novel at 11 in fifth grade, and my sister illustrated it. It was a very Judy Blume book (apologies to Judy Blume for any attempt to compare myself) about a girl and her brother whose parents were going through a divorce and they hated their dad's new girlfriend. I don't know what happened to it, but I often wish I could find it. I'm sure it is not as good as it is in my memory, but I was pretty convinced it was brilliant. I took creative writing in college and my undergrad degree is in Marketing/Mass Communications. In college, I ran special events at Faneuil Hall Marketplace in Boston. I also managed an A cappella group from Brown University called the Jabberwocks. I mostly went to law school to get the "credentials" having a lot to do with this latter experience. When I got out, I wanted to be in entertainment management. But a funny thing happened in law school. The economy crashed (much like it has now, but not as long-lasting) and I had to take the job I could get as a divorce lawyer at a major Long Island firm. In the meantime, law school had basically sucked the creativity right out of me and it took me about ten years to find it again and start my first manuscript.

Jeff: You said it took you 10 years to get your creativity back and write your first novel. During that time, did you forget about writing, or was it always there? Were you brewing stories in your mind?

Gae: No, the opposite. I was trying to be a lawyer (which I wasn't exactly enjoying, although it had its moments). And then I had kids. And I was trying to be a good mommy, which was exhilarating, but exhausting. And I truly believed the creativity was sucked out of me and I had no stories to tell . . . but it was always there underneath. It was always the dream. The Jetty was the first novel I wrote. It took me about five years start to finish. I started it while I was pregnant with my second, and would write into the wee hours of the night after the boys went to bed.

Jeff: You have two boys, Sam (15) and Holden (12) to whom you read a lot. When you used to read to them, did you think, "I can do that?"

Gae: Yes. And in fact, the boys would get frustrated that we couldn't find enough good contemporary [Young Adult] fiction that featured male protagonists. My boys were never "Harry Potter" kids (it scared them!) or fantasy or sci-fi. They wanted character-driven stories that weren't so girly, even though we loved some of the more girly-feeling ones very much. So more and more I started thinking, I'm going to do this. I can do this. My first stab was actually a middle-grade journal style book called Henry's Absolutely Required Fourth Grade Journal which both my boys loved (and preceded Diary of a Wimpy Kid, FYI!), but I never revised enough to really send it out anywhere (although Michael Bourret read and understandably rejected a first draft!).

Jeff: Did you write The Pull of Gravity for them? Did you read it to them along the way (as you wrote) or was it a "finished" product the first time they got to read it?

Gae: I wrote it for them, but did not read it aloud as I went. My older son read the first draft by himself and quietly liked it. My younger son, I read that first draft aloud to, and he loved it. We then read the revised version aloud together, and he has since read the ARC to himself as his required book for school last month. He's a big fan of the story. Probably my biggest.

Jeff: What was it like reading YOUR book to Holden, or letting Sam read it? Were you afraid of their reactions? Did you watch them for their responses?

Gae: One day I was reading a chapter aloud [to Holden], and my older son---who is fond of torturing me about my books (not his type anymore)---laughed out loud DESPITE himself. That was a great moment. My younger son is my biggest fan. There is nothing better than reading my books aloud with him. He is a GREAT editor and will tell me when stuff isn't working. And will get all the nuances. The best part is when he tells me that he forgets I am the author because it "feels like a real book."

Jeff: Do you feel The Pull of Gravity is a legacy of yourself you've left for your kids, and your grand kids?

Gae: I hope so. I believe so. I still aspire to write a "bigger better" book. But I love [The Pull of Gravity] and I think it is worthy. I hope one day my boys will read it to their kids. But don't ever make me type that sentence again because it seriously makes me weep.

Jeff: What's more special: A glowing book review from a famous critic, or a laugh at the exact right spot from your kids?

Gae: TOTALLY leading question. Honestly, the latter. The respect, appreciation, pride of my kids. Look, I'm praying for good critical reviews but things that already mean more to me: my family's reaction; the unbelievably humbling praise I've already received from the people I idolize MOST in the field (I mean, seriously, Chris Crutcher, Lynne Rae Perkins, KL Going, Francisco X. Stork and Mary E. Pearson . . . have you READ THEIR books?) and even moreso, a letter I received from the father of a teen--- I won’t name names--- telling me how much my virtual friendship and encouragement has meant to her. That's why I write. That's why I always want to write. Thanks for reminding me.

Jeff: Thank you, Gae. I’m really looking forward to reading The Pull of Gravity to Grant in May.

---

You can learn more about Gae Polisner by visiting her Web site at gaepolisner.com

Pre-order The Pull of Gravity, here.

And the winner is . . .

2011-02-06T09:00:00.000-08:00

Split Ends. By a mile.

---

International Intrigue – Martha

Yes, her name was Martha. No, she was not 90.

Starbucks in Canada are identical to Starbucks in America. They even order in ounces despite being on the metric system, and they gladly took my money in a very American way.

“I can’t give you the exchange rate,” the disinterested barista said. Even in Canada, baristas believe they are way too cool for their idiot clientele.

I sat at a table in the corner, pulled out my laptop and started Word. It opened just as slowly in Canada. Staring at the blank page, I prayed words would magically appear.

I’d come to Canada to get inspired. Inspiration had yet to strike. I was certain the more I stared at the screen, prose the likes the world had never seen would begin to flow from my fingers. While I waiting, I tapped The William Tell Overture across the ASDF keys. The first sip of coffee scorched my teeth, forcing me to do Fahrenheit to Celsius conversions in my head.

“You’re an American,” a woman’s voice said, snapping me from my reverie.

Coffee spilled from my lip burning me again and I coughed as I raised my head, staring into deep green eyes and a coy smile that would have stunned me even if I had been prepared for her. She was average height, fit without being thin, and wore her strawberry blond hair with style. I could have stared at her for longer, but I think it would have made us both uncomfortable, though I’m sure she was used to catching glances.

“Excuse me?” I croaked, wiping my chin with the palm of my hand. Mr. Smooth.

“You. You’re an American,” she said again.

“Is it that obvious?”

“You paid with American money.”

“Right. Yeah. That.” Boy, I sure knew how to form complex sentences.

“You know she ripped you off.” She said it in such a way that it was clear it wasn’t a question.

“Yeah, Starbucks is overpriced wherever you go.”

“That too. But she ripped you off on your change.”

“I haven’t had a chance to get to an exchange kiosk this morning. How much did she take me for?”

“Not much. Probably a dollar. An American one, so a bit more Canadian.”

I nodded, not sure what else to say.

“How long have you been here?” she asked.

“Got in last night,” I said.

More silence.

“So are you going to ask me to join you?”

I believe I’ve mentioned that I’m Mr. Smooth.

“Sorry, yes, please. Will you sit with me?”

She sat across from me, legs crossed, swaying her leg to some unheard rhythm. She told me her name was Martha. I introduced myself. We shared small talk. She asked what I was doing in Canada. I explained it as best I could without sounding pretentious. I left out the part about my being under investigation for murder, as this seems to be a roadblock when meeting women. She said she too wanted to be a writer. I keep getting mixed up with writers, who are just about as fucked in the head as I am, yet that doesn’t seem to stop me from falling in love within the first twenty minutes of meeting them. Martha did not seem fucked in the head, but it was early yet, and there was still time for her to break into song in the middle of coffee.

“I recently graduated from university,” she said, her accent distinctly Canadian English.

“Interesting,” I said.

“What? That I graduated from university? Doesn’t seem all that interesting.”

“Well, interesting enough that you’d mention it to me. But I meant the way you say it.”

“How’s that?”

“That you ‘graduated from university.’ In the States, we say ‘graduated from college.’ It’s interesting that we’re neighbors, we share the same language, but we use it differently.”

“Well, we’re still a bit British in our diction.”

“I admit, I don’t know a lot about Canada, other than Jim Carrey and that the Queen of Canada lives in England.”

“Impressive.”

“How’s that?”

“Well most Canadians don’t even know we have a queen. They did a poll where only five percent of Canadians could answer that she was the head of state. Everyone thinks Prime Minister Harper and the Governor General are in charge.”

“Sounds like drama.”

“No, not at all. In fact, no one really cares. Every few years, some Parliamentary showoff will try to raise the Republic flag, but after a few beers, they typically forget about it and move on.”

It had been nearly twenty minutes, and I was beginning to fall in love with this woman.

“So how long are you in town?”

“I haven’t decided yet. I was hoping two weeks, but I don’t know if my money will last that long.”

“Where are you staying?”

“At a hostel on King Street.”

“The Village?”

“Yeah, how’d you know?”

“I’ve lived here my whole life. Things don’t change quickly in Canada. It snows from early October until May. Not much to do in the meantime but drink and watch television. No one builds, so once you learn the sites, you know they’ll pretty much always be the same.”

I swirled my coffee and glanced over at my blank screen.

“I’ve kept you,” she said.

“It’s okay. I wasn’t writing anyway. That’s the same word count I had before I left.”

“Well, let’s go site seeing,” she said, suddenly standing. “Let’s see if we can find something to inspire you.”

We left, opening the door and attacking Toronto together.

Split Ends is killing Three Dogs

2011-01-31T18:42:00.000-08:00

I'm not ready to call it yet, but, ah, yeah, damn.

2011-01-29T21:26:00.000-08:00

As promised, here's Chapter 1 of my WIP, Three Dogs, which is a follow up to my YA Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award entry, Four Dogs.

It's a lot rougher than the excerpt for Split Ends, and I've only done two chapters thus far, though I've already plotted most of the book through the major conflicts and ending.

Anyway, your thoughts, and especially compared to my adult project, and the market are appreciated.

j

---

Paul Douglass stood at the edge of the clearing, smiling. They had come, just as the master said they would. As he watched them step through the clearing and into what had once been a fort he and his friends had built, he marveled at how smart the master was. From the moment he’d met Batu Chinua, everything had gone according to plan.

Well, nearly everything.

The master hadn’t planned on J.J.

And where was the master now for that mistake?

Paul smiled again.

He had figured out a way to outwit J.J. when the master hadn’t. He had played the game.

The three boys climbed up into the fort and disappeared. Paul sniffed at the air, his senses more keen when he took this shape. But he couldn’t stay this way for too long. He let out a brief howl, enough to frighten the boys, but not scare them off and ran through the woods toward the cabin he had built in case the master returned.

As he walked through the cabin door, he retook his human shape.

His mind raced with his power.

“You were never this powerful at my age,” he said.

The empty room absorbed the sound.

He licked his lips and tasted blood; a taste he imagined he’d never grow tired of. It would be dark soon. He had to head back to his home, fall back in line with J.J. and the others. They couldn’t know what he had become.

The master would return—if he could—and Paul would be needed in both worlds. The thought of pretending to be like one of them made him want to throw up.

“If I have to do this on my own, Master, I will. I will continue what you couldn’t.”

A charged ripped through him like a bolt of lightning. He crashed to the floor, writhing, unable to control the spasms that coursed through his flesh.

Thoughts, images, words surrounded him, through him, in him, like a fog of sound, consuming him but without mass. It was like he been punched in the chest by a thousand pounds of pressure.

He saw the knife on the table.

“Master. No. Please.”

“Don’t ever question me,” a voice said.

“I’m sorry, Master.”

“Too late.”

Paul grabbed the knife, raised it into the air and brought it down with all his power. The pain was unbearable.

“You are nothing without me,” the voice said.

When the darkness came, Paul embraced it, hoping it would stop the pain.

Split Ends: A Novel About Dead Girlfriends

2011-01-27T17:10:00.000-08:00

Here's a short excerpt. I'll post an excerpt for Three Dogs tomorrow.

---

“I see all the things I've missed out on, and wonder how I got here. An infinitely long list of bad choices and worse circumstances.”

“You’re just feeling sorry for yourself,” Patrick said. I knew he was trying to be helpful, but right then, I didn’t want his help.

“I’m dealing with a lot of dead people who I used to love.”

“So, waa. A lot of us deal with a lot of dead people who we used to love.”

“Not like this, Patrick.”

“Sure, maybe not like this. But people die. You didn’t have any part in it.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because you didn’t sick a pack of angry ducks on Stephanie, and you didn’t make a tree fall on Starr.”

Out of context, this was an absolutely obscure comment. Had I mapped out every conversation I’d ever have in my entire life, this would not have made the list.

“I don’t know, Pat. I really don’t. Maybe the cops are right. There are just too many bodies, and too many coincidences.” I paused and thought about Officer DeParalta’s comments. “And not enough answers.”

Patrick stared at me. I could see it growing in his mind, too.

“So you’re starting to believe them?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“But don’t you think you’d know if you were killing people?”

“I don’t know, Pat. You hear about serial killers all the time separating their own realities from the ‘monster’ that’s killing people. What if I’m one of those guys? What if I’m killing people while in some weird other consciousness?”

“Like you’re blacking out and turning into Ted Bundy?”

“Yeah, like that. Maybe I have no idea that I’m killing people when really I am.”

“Look, I’ve known you a long time. I think I’d know if you were killing people.”

“No, Pat, you’d be the guy they interviewed who said, ‘He was such a nice boy. Always ate his green beans.’”

“You hate green beans.”

“Not the point, Patrick. The point is, no one thinks their best friend is a serial killer until the cops show up. When they arrested that BTK guy, you think his wife went, ‘Oh, totally, I saw this coming.’?”

“That’s different. She didn’t want to see those things.”

“And you do?”

“Man, if you’re a serial killer, do you know how much air time I’ll get? I could make millions selling your story.”

“Nice. It’s so comforting to know you’d use my misery to make a buck.”

“That’s what best friends are for. I’m here to help you, but if you’re guilty, fuck yeah, I’m totally selling every word you’ve ever spoken to me to TMZ.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“Your lips to God’s ears, brother.”

Despite my best efforts, I was actually starting to feel better.

“So what now?”

“Now we try to find Neanderthal. We get him to admit he was the one with Michelle when she died. That’s the only one they got you with right now, so let’s solve that one.”

“Where do we start?”

“We go back to college.”

---

Done. Next.

2011-01-26T20:40:00.000-08:00

Four Dogs is officially submitted to the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Awards.

There's nothing I can do at this point but wait until the next round to find out if my pitch as advanced, and my excerpt moves on to be reviewed by Amazon Vine Reviewers.

While I'm not holding my breath, I like to think my pitch, and the concept of Four Dogs will be good enough to move me through to the next round.

Either way, I won't know until Feb. 24, and so, it's time to move on to other things.

I finally saved up enough to buy a Macbook Pro (and said goodbye to my first love, my iBook). I have AutoArt to create and send to press for the next two weeks, and then it's time to get back to writing.

What I'm getting to is a question. I have two books I'm currently working on, and I'd like to narrow it down and focus on one of them.

Three Dogs is the sequel to Four Dogs. Split Ends is an adult humorous/mystery. Work on Three Dogs in case Four Dogs wins and I need to follow up with an option book? Or jump out of that genre, and do something different?

Now, I have to be honest, I think I was born to write humorous mysteries a la Carl Hiaasen of 15 years ago. Nothing makes me happier than making people laugh.

But I need to be pragmatic. It's not about what I want to write, but what I can sell. I have to write to the market, and not to the muse.

Right?

Before you make your decision, I'll share two excerpts with you. In a couple days, I'll upload a short excerpt of Three Dogs. A couple days after that, I'll upload a short excerpt from Split Ends.

In the meantime, time for me to get to work on AutoArt so I can finish paying for my new toy.

j

Happy Chrismahanukwanzakah!

2010-12-24T06:39:00.000-08:00

I haven't blogged in a while; busy with freelance and day job stuff, and polishing up Four Dogs and my pitch for the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Awards v4.

Still don't have a lot of time, so I just quickly wanted to wish you and yours a very Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year.

Here's to 2011 being better than 2010, and that'll take a lot, because 2010 was a very good year.

Call me Ishmael

2010-11-17T09:59:00.000-08:00

While scouring the Amazon Customer Forums, I stumbled across a discussion regarding poor spelling, grammar, and punctuation in a self-published Kindle e-book.

Here's the initial comment, republished without any sort of permission from the author or Amazon, of course.

"Poor formating in ebooks is bad but books which use the wrong words drives me crazy. Not long ago I read about a woman whaling and tonight I read about a man whose shirt collar was taught. How can someone whose vocablulary is so stunted actually write a book?"

While several other responders seized the opportunity to take shots at the complainer's own mistakes, the point was mostly missed:

We've dumbed down publishing to the point where anyone can be called an author (including yours truly, I admit).

And, alas, we see the problem with Kindle and self-publishing. There are no editors, no gatekeepers, no orchardist to keep the worms out of the apples. If you have a keyboard and the gumption to slaughter enough electrons to call it a book, you're a published author. Agents, editors, and houses get a bad rep for sending the majority of books (and authors) to the showers, but it's just as much the fault of wannabe best-sellers who are to blame for the state of the publishing world.

We've become a society of instant gratification, including the process of getting your words into the hands of the masses. Editing? Proofreading? Pshaw! There's no time for that. My words are far too important to be edited!

Another "author" recently announced "I'm new to this, but here goes. I've wrote a series of books and I don't exact;ly know how to get them out there. I need publicity on them so what do I do?"

This person has multiple books out there, waiting to be purchased and adored by her legion of fans. And the books, she claims, are so good, no one really cares that it's only been edited by "a college student with a degree in English." But where's the oversight?

The answer is: With the buyers. Despite the number of e-books and self-published tomes available, it still takes houses to make the marketing commitment, and editorial decisions that ultimately get good books the publicity they need to actually sell. Five copies of a Kindle book does not buy a Victorian cottage overlooking the sea.

I should point out, to be fair, that there are many (MANY!) fine self-published books on the market. There are writers who can't get through the door, not based on the quality or merit of their work, but because the houses ultimately care more about commercialism than literary integrity. This rant should not, in any way, take away from the good that self-publishing has brought.

And so we're left with what we have. As long as there's a venue for putting untouched letters on paper, there will be books that were written and released without so much as a second read. But, buyer beware. You get what you pay for.

Swagger

2010-10-08T07:16:00.000-07:00

Over at the DGLM blog, Miriam Goderich shares Hunter S. Thompson’s job application to the Vancouver Sun.

Hunter was the master of bravado, certain to himself that he was better than every other writer out there. Now, we all know Hunter was a bit off center, but he could back up his claims by writing amazing stories. Everything he did was intended to move the reader. Be it sports coverage or political manifestos, the reader felt. And isn't that the point of writing?

It got me thinking about confidence, and in particular, over-confidence. There's a fine line between bravado and cockiness. It's not a straight, solid line. For each of us, that line is in a different place. What one person sees as swagger, another may see as arrogance. What may be machismo to me, is insolence to you.

Personally, like most writers, I struggle with lack of confidence at times, and at other times, I find myself over-blown with a sense of self. I see some writers who I think I can write circles around getting book deals, and I think, "Has the publishing world gone mad?" Then there are times (especially after a particularly painful rejection) that I wonder if I should hang up the keyboard and find a job where my only creative input is which brush to use to clean the toilet bowl.

My questions to you, fellow writers and readers, is where to you fall on the ego spectrum? Do you try to keep your arrogance in check, or do you put yourself out there no matter the perception? Are you turned off by writers who think they can (and should) share their gift with humanity? Does cockiness help or hurt in the publishing universe?

Writing ain't free

2010-09-13T10:29:00.001-07:00

Once again, someone is on the ABNA (Amazon Breakthrough Novel Awards) discussion board offering writers a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity: Write original fiction for me, for free, and you'll get . . . wait for it . . . EXPOSURE!

I can kind of see how people who don't write for a living would devalue the written word. They don't get it, because they don't know how hard it is. But for fellow writers to ask you to write for free? Shameful.

That's not to say writing for free doesn't have its place. Charity work, for one. Certainly, if you're giving back through your talents, free is cool. Another is "Guest Blogger" where you're selling yourself and expressing your opinions, or even a reciprocal trade.

But when you give work away, you're basically saying YOU yourself don't value your work, your labor, your creative ideas and talent. There is nothing that says professional like putting a dollar value on your work. Even if it's nominal, you have to give yourself credit.

Writers used to be paid by the word, and while that's not always the case any longer, you should still think of your work in terms of dollars. When you sit down, put a dollar figure to each word. Let's say 3 cents a word, for example. When you start writing each day, think of the dollars that piece is worth. A 500-word flash fiction mystery = $15. A thousand words on your manuscript = $30.

Seems kind of low, right? I mean, $15. Surely giving away $15 worth of fiction is worth the exposure, right? Not necessarily. If a Web site, magazine, blog, or other publication can't afford to pay you $15, are you really going to get $15 worth of exposure?

You wouldn't ask a plumber to come to your house and fix your sink for exposure.

Don't write for free.

And, done.

2010-08-27T11:34:00.000-07:00

I just completed my second full-length novel. My son and I read the final chapter together last night, and I made the edits this afternoon during my lunch break. I can't believe I finally did it.

And it only took seven years from idea to final word.

For Sale: KY Warming Massage Oil - Only Used Once.

2010-08-19T12:23:00.000-07:00

I'm on fire!

KY Warming Massage Oil should be banned. The label says it's safe for intimate areas.

Whose intimate areas?

Not mine. Not my wife's.

It goes from "this is nice," to "this is pure napalm on my naughty bits" in about a minute and a half. I cried during sex, which my wife thought was romantic and sensitive, but it was really me afraid I was going to be left with a charred nub for a tallywacker. It's like BenGay on your groin. Apparently they did not do enough market research before putting this out for public consumption. Was their test market a sadist and masochist retreat colony?

Have you seen the commercials? They make it sound delightful. What they should show is Mt. Vesuvius erupting and melting the people of Pompeii. Two people sitting on the couch, talking about their love life, CUT TO people running through the streets screaming "MY FLESH IS PEELING OFF LIKE LIQUID SKIN!"

I had a third-degree burn from a motorcycle muffler that felt better.

Not recommended.

Changed my mind

2010-08-03T10:33:00.000-07:00

I was going to share an excerpt from Four Dogs, but I decided you'll just have to wait until it comes out to read any more.

That should be in about 20 years.

TGINM

2010-07-27T09:32:00.000-07:00

There are few things work-wise that suck quite like getting back to your desk after waiting in line to use the one microwave that serves an entire building to discover that even though the outside of your Lean Pocket is hot enough to melt iron ore, the inside is still frozen.

Thinking to yourself that you can't believe it's only Wednesday, when really it's only Tuesday ranks fairly high on the Suck-O-Meter as well.

Write, dammit!

2010-07-13T14:09:00.000-07:00

Inspired by my old friend Michael Britton, who put down 500-plus words a night for nearly a year, I'm gonna get back to work on a few projects.

My friend Gae is also pushing me.

Thanks, Gae.

You can check out Gae's blog here.

Happy Independence Day

2010-07-04T07:03:00.001-07:00

Today we celebrate our freedom, and that includes the freedom to blow stuff up.

Oh, shit, it's Canada Day

2010-07-01T10:33:00.001-07:00

As most of you are aware, today is Canada Day in, where else? Canada.

It's a celebration of July 1, 1867 when Canada won its independence from Britain by combining two British colonies and a province of the British Empire into one big, massive block of ice and snow. Under the agreement, the new country would still be under British Rule, but they would be able to learn to speak English correctly, other than still being required to put an extra "U" in most words, such as colour, honour, and Ouctober.

One of the most popular things to do on Canada Day is go see the Queen of Canada, Elizabeth II, whose face is on Canadian currency (street value $.87 US), and then go to the Gay Pride Parade. The Queen makes a yearly visit to Canada just to make sure nothing has changed in the 143 years that she's been the Queen. Because of her advancing age, the Queen only visits during the Canadian summer (June 30 - July 2).

In America, we aren't taught a lot about Canada other than it's generally north of the United States and there is an over-abundance of snow and ice. But there's so much more to Canada. They also invented Arctic Air, Windchill Factor, and Ice Beer, so named because Canadians are an industrious bunch and discovered there's no reason to let frozen beer go to waste. Canada also exports such commodities as Aluminum, comedians, and methamphetamines.

Canadian children play a traditional Canadian game for Canada Day called "What Animal Ate Daddy?" A deck of cards containing many different animals including Moose, Bear, Beavers, and Mosquitoes, are laid out in a circle. Each child in turn says "Will Daddy Come Home Tonight?" and then draws a card. If the child pulls a non-lethal animal, such as a squirrel, they stay in the game. If they pull a lethal animal, such as the Canadian Goose, they have to skip a turn, or what's known as "Going to live with Uncle for some time, eh?"

But not everything is wine and roses in Oh, Canada. Recently there has been some conflict between the English-speaking Canadians and the Fucking French-speaking Canadians. Apparently, some people in Canada were not informed until recently that Canada is under British rule and had been brought up to believe they are actually in a very cold region of France. This was discovered about 10 years ago when they went out to witness Lance Armstrong at the Tour de France (Le Tour de Sainte Genevieve) only to instead see Matthew "Skeeter" Thomas riding a two-person bike by himself through the city streets. Because of this, the Fucking French Canadians want to form their own nation which would be known as Quebec (pronounced "Rhode Island").

A recent poll taken June 16, shows that nearly two-thirds of Canadians (17 people), think Canada should not be under British rule and should form their own country, however, because Canada is a constitutional Monarchy, they would have to completely shift their form of government. The amount of work this would take (several weeks), usually puts most Canadians out of the mood for such drastic change. However, two prominent Canadians were discussing this possibility over some Moosehead, and a plan known as "No, really, we could totally do this" was sprung. Details are sketchy, and it wouldn't be prudent to go into them at this point, but suffice to say the plan includes digging a hole and hoping any British dignitary who tries to stop them "falls into it and twists their ankles."

There is also a small faction (Steve "Skeeter" Hutcheson) who feel Canada should join the United States. Unfortunately, this would never work. Most Canadians still use an archaic measurement system known as the "Metric System." Under this system, units of weight, size, and volume are measured using a completely arbitrary set of numbers. For example, Canada is roughly 3,851,787 square miles. Using a complicated algorithm, 1 foot equals about 0.3048 meters, therefore, under the metric system, Canada is about 9,976,128 square hectogramliters, which is a completely ridiculous made up number.

But that's a discussion for another day. Today is a day to celebrate Canada. Good job turning three smaller British colonies into one big heaping British colony. Good work!

The Importance of a Short-Term Memory

2010-06-28T08:11:00.000-07:00

In any relationship, there is nothing more valuable than a short-term memory. Grudges kill. Most indiscretions are forgivable, and learning to let it go is paramount to maintaining a healthy life. You can carry the baggage of past mistakes forever, or you can let it go and move on. A slight, a mistake, a misconception, a bad day, these things happen.

Sometimes, "sorry" has to be enough penance to pay.

Quality Culture

2010-06-22T10:51:00.000-07:00

The new corporate buzz phrase sweeping the nation: Quality Culture. Everywhere you look, there are signs asking: How has Quality Culture affected your work area?

I think we’ve gotten ahead of ourselves. Corporate America hasn't created an environment where the goal is quality. We’ve created an environment where no one wants to take the blame.

We don’t go into projects saying, “How can I make sure this is the best project ABC Co., can do?” We go in saying, “What can I do to make sure I’m not to blame if this project fails?”

From a form that gets kicked back because it’s missing the date, to projects sitting at a standstill while each cog in the wheel argues over whose job it is to define what's needed, too much time is wasted pointing fingers and assigning blame.

You won’t often hear: “Let me help you,” thereby helping the company. Instead, you hear (either in words or actions) “It’s not my job.”

A few months ago, at my company, one department needed a non-standard fix to a problem. Finding a permanent solution would take months and the project would have missed the federally mandated tax deadline. So the department asked, “what can we do for a quick fix now, and then come back and find the solution when we have time?”

What they got in return was “That’s not how we do it. You need to figure out a solution for yourself.”

Today, I stood in front of the entrance to one of our restricted warehouses waiting for someone to acknowledge my presence. You can only enter with an escort. For five minutes, I stood there as no fewer than three associates walked right by me, each of them multiple times.

It was finally an associate from the other side of the building who came to help. The entire time I spent in the actual area I needed? Less than thirty seconds.

That is not a quality culture. That is a culture of “find someone to blame” but “don’t look at me.” Like most companies, everyone is looking to blame someone else, but no one wants to take chances for fear they'll be blamed if it fails.

Stay-cation

2010-06-19T14:33:00.000-07:00

Nothing new to update. Been away from the computer, mostly. Took the week off and just spending time doing summer things with my kids. Been to the neighborhood pool, a lot. Cleaned the garage. Played in the water sprinkler, a lot. Went to a water park yesterday, and going to the drive-in tonight to watch Toy Story 3. Good times.

Pieces of peace have me puzzled

2010-06-14T14:41:00.000-07:00

Sometimes it life, you come to a crossroads where you can keep on doing what you're doing, or you can make a change. You can stay with what you know, or you can learn something new.

I've come to that point in my life. It wasn't a moment, a spark, an epiphany. It's not like I got cracked on the head and woke up Scrooge-like with a different attitude on life. I just realized that what I've been doing isn't working, and so I have to do something else. I've been accused, at times, of being a drama queen. Actually, nothing could be further from the truth. I hate drama. I hate drama in friendships, in relationships, at work, at play. I hate it.

Unfortunately, my distaste for drama is often overwhelmed by my inability to sit quietly and not respond to criticism, or what I perceive to be an injustice.

Change isn't easy, but I've been weening myself away from the things in my past life that are just too chaotic, too stressful, too . . . not what I want. I've been distancing myself from the things that cause drama or don't fulfill me in ways that are healthy, or make me feel better about myself. However, from time to time, I dip my toes back in, and, lately, it doesn't take long (minutes) for me to remember why I wasn't there before. Growth is hard.

Staying in a bad relationship, or putting yourself in the same bad positions time and time again isn't healthy, and it's not the way I want to live my life. It took me a long time to understand that I control my environment. Life isn't a puzzle where everything has to fit. If I don't like the pieces around me, I can change the pieces. It's an ever-changing picture that you create based on whichever pieces you place. Don't like this one? Get rid of it. It's interchangeable with a million others that might work better. And there's no limit to how many pieces you get to try. You're not going to run out of chances.

It's not like you're stuck with your choices. You're not. "Hey, this sucks!"

Fine. It sucks.

Now do something about it. Change the pieces.

Over here, in my world, it's calm, and quiet, and peaceful. I like it here. It makes me want to live, and play, and enjoy each day. And it's because of me. It's my doing. I decided what I wanted, and I did it. I was in charge of my happiness. Why I never understood this before is beyond me.

I guess that's why they call it growth.

Busy Beyond Belief

2010-06-08T04:46:00.000-07:00

Between work and freelance, there's been no time for me. No dreaming, no playing.

No writing.

I envy those who have the luxury of time. Lately I've been consumed by pressure from work and my various freelance gigs. It's a bit much.

Perhaps more than a bit.

People say you need to make time, but you can't make more time. There are only so many hours. Mine are filled, and to find more, I'd have to sacrifice something else. Like right now, for instance. I should be working out, but I'm taking a moment. And I feel guilty about it. Guilty because I know I should be doing something else, and I'm playing.

For just a moment.

Now back to it.

Four Dogs

2010-05-27T10:53:00.000-07:00

Added a couple chapters to Four Dogs yesterday. Felt like I needed to bridge the confrontation between Jeremy and Batu a little better. Next I'm moving on to a confrontation between J.J. and his mom. I need to give him some more conflict to make his ultimate decisions even harder.

Here's a little glimpse from the new material:

J.J.’s head filled with confusion and fear. He felt on the verge of passing out.

Behind him, the German Shepherd let out a painful yelp and then fell silent.

J.J. spun around, listening.

Silence.

He turned back to look at the ledger once more.

“You shouldn’t be in here, boy.”

Batu.

Jeremy screamed and jumped away from the book.

When had Batu arrived? How long had he been here, standing, listening, watching, waiting?

The old man stood in the doorway, blocking the exit. J.J. looked across at the window, wondering if he could run and jump through it before Batu could cross the room.

“I wouldn’t try it, if I were you, Jeremy,” Batu said, as if reading J.J.'s thoughts.

“Come. Sit with me.”

J.J. hesitated.

“I won’t hurt you. Unless you force me to,” Batu said.

Happy Birthday, Dennis Hopper

2010-05-17T09:08:00.000-07:00

OK. I lied. I'm writing about my birthday today.

My narcissism knows no bounds.

I'm 39 today. A pup to some, a grandpa to others. It's a big year for me. They say you discover yourself in your 20s, and define yourself in your 30s. I have one more year to define myself.

There are a lot of things I thought I would have accomplished by now; being a published fiction author not the least of them. Fame, fortune, glory. They seem to have eluded me this decade. But I have one more year. One more year to do the things I set out to do.

The question, as it has been for nine years, however, is when?

My time is running out. It's time for me to make time for me.

Keep writing,

j

Excerpt from Tail Ends (one of my WIPs)

2010-05-10T08:21:00.000-07:00

Background: Alan Blakely, the MC, just caught his first "girlfriend" blowing some guy in a pool.

***

At times like this, a man has to step up and be a man. People date. People break up. The trick is being strong, taking the punches life gives you, standing up, brushing off the dust, and getting back out there. There's no sense wallowing in self-pity, feeling sorry for yourself, sitting in the dark with your head phones on, listening to break-up songs, and eating Haagen-Dazs straight from the container.

No, men are men. We are strong. We carry on. We get drunk and hit the bars, because, by God, no worthless bitch is going to bring us down!

"Mom," I sobbed into the phone, "Michelle just broke up with me."

"It's okay, baby," she said in that cooing motherly voice used for calming children. "Everything's going to be okay."

"You don't understand, Mom. I loved her," I wailed.

"Oh, I'm sure love is a pretty strong word. How long did you know this Michelle?"

"That's not the point, Mom. Love is love. I know what I felt. And now it's over."

"Shh," she whispered. "You just let it all out. Momma's here for you now."

I must have cried on the phone for twenty minutes, my mom shh-shing and coddling me through the worst of it. Sometimes I spoke, and sometimes I just cried.

Finally, when she felt I was getting a grip on my emotions, my mom politely asked questions, and I politely answered. I tried to leave out the sordid details, as telling your mom about your sexual escapades is probably the single most awkward thing in the entire world. However, as far as the relationship goes, it felt good talking about. It felt like closure, or at least something close to that.

We went through the history, how we met, how long we dated, how was the relationship. I fibbed at most of the details, but admitted that Michelle and I had met at a party, and that it had been intimate.

"Well, that's part of the problem right there. Any girl who would have sexual relations with a boy the first night they met, is a hussy."

"Mom, no one says 'sexual relations," except presidents and preachers. And no one says 'hussy.'"

"You know what I mean. I'm not going to say it."

My mom. The saint. When I was fourteen years old, when I found out my real father wasn't dead, but had in fact abandoned us when I was two years old, I called him an asshole. Mind you, I was beside myself with anger at the time, having just received the most crushing news of my life. My mother, instead of consoling me, flung a Bible at me, hitting me in the ear so hard, I heard a faint ringing until I started my junior year of high school.

"Don't ever use those words!" she had screamed at me. "My ears are not a trash receptacle for your potty mouth!"

I had no hope of converting her, but at least over the phone I didn't have to worry about flying Bibles and ringing ears.

"She's a slut, mother. Plain and simple."

I waited for the admonishment, but it didn't come.

"So what happened," she said instead.

I recounted how we had gone to the party, how Michelle had worn her leopard bikini and black thong flip-flops, and losing her at the party.

"When I walked out to the pool, I saw this Neanderthal in the water, leaning his head back. I could see someone under water in front of him. At first, I didn't know who it was, but then I saw the flowing black hair, and Michelle's bikini and flip-flops sitting on the side of the pool, and I put it all together. I started to turn, when he opened his eyes, looked right at me, and winked. I just ran after that. I came straight home and I've been a wreck ever since."

"Well, it sounds like you're better off without her, and good riddance. Do you know the kinds of diseases you can get from a loose woman like that?"

"I know, Mom. But this was thirty minutes ago. It's going to take some time to get over it. I just can't believe she would do this to me."

"I think she's just the type of person to do something like this to a nice boy like you."

"Thanks, Mom. I don't know if that makes me feel better or worse."

"It should make you feel better. You're a good boy, Alan. You deserve better than a girl like that."

With that, we said our goodbyes, our I love yous, and hung up. My eyes were heavy, and with the tears gone, sleep was setting in. The image of Michelle going down on some guy in a pool emblazoned on my mind, but respite eventually came, and I slept dreamlessly until dawn with a loud knocking on my door.

The overwhelming pressure to be funny

2010-05-06T08:47:00.000-07:00

When asked why I don't write much on my blog, my answer is always, I don't have much to say.

That's not entirely true.

The truth is, I don't have anything funny to say.

As a writer of wit and humor, there is overwhelming pressure to always be on, always be funny. Like a monkey doing tricks, I'm supposed to make people laugh.

Most of the time, I'm just not that funny.

As evidenced by this post.

Being funny is a lot of work. While throwing out a quip at a party, or slapping together a one-liner in response to a straight man is relatively easy for me, it's much harder to be both sides of the conversation and create from nothing something that makes your sides hurt. I have a great deal of respect for the pros who seem to be able to do it with ease, like Dave Barry and Christopher Moore. But I bet if you ask them, it's the same way for them.

Being funny is hard.

And there's not a secret button you can push to turn the funny on. Like method actors, I'm a method writer. When I'm writing a particularly harsh scene in a book, it's easy to turn on angry music or sad music, and get myself into whatever mood I need to get through that scene. But when I'm not feeling funny, it's impossible to sit down and BE funny. I could put on a comedian who I like, but then I'm just enjoying someone else's jokes, and I find myself rehashing the same old lines someone else has already told.

Now I feel like I need a classic poop joke to give this post closure.

See? Overwhelming pressure.

Let's try this again

2010-05-05T14:28:00.000-07:00

OK. I cleaned out my closet yesterday. Time to start fresh.

All old posts have been deleted. Let's pretend today is Day 1.