Tales From the Road: The Cot Saga Pt 1.

Author’s Note: Yes, it has been two years since I posted a blog. I’m getting my Master’s Degree and it’s kept me busy. Quit complaining.

Imagine, if you will, a perpetually angry, raspy-voiced Irishman (self-described), that dresses like a detective who steals money and cocaine from precinct evidence lockers, skulking around a once-labeled “luxury hotel,” floor to floor, trying to steal a cot so his new comedy buddy wasn’t relegated to sleeping on the crumb-covered carpet of their near-penthouse hotel room. That’s how our weekend began.

There were three of us. All headliners in our own right. One from New York, the other Atlantic City, and me, from a single-story ranch in the middle of a swamp in Southwest Michigan surrounded by stinkbugs, bobcats, and soybeans. My road buddies, Terry, and Mike invited me on a weekend at Wiley’s Comedy Joint in the Oregon District in Downtown Dayton, Ohio. Wiley’s is the oldest operating comedy club in Ohio, and it had been twenty-years since I performed there. Twenty-years because I screwed up years ago and only a management change and a strong recommendation from club-favorite, Mike, brought me back through the rust red doors.

Last time I was the host for my friend Troy and an amazing headliner named Drew. Some years later Drew became the mayor of a small Ohio town. It always amused me that politicians are all clowns, and a town hired an actual comedian to run their business. I understand he was one of the best they’d ever had. Until the scandal.

I bombed that weekend. I had the flu and kept forgetting the comedians’ names when I was introducing them, and I knew both of them well. It was a trainwreck, inside of a monsoon, under an avalanche, in the center of a California wildfire. It’s one of those moments that at its conclusion both entities part ways and nobody says anything as it isn’t necessary. I knew I failed. They knew I failed. I knew I wasn’t coming back any time soon. I knew because they’d set a cinderblock on top of their appointment book as I walked into the office to get my pay. Any time soon in comedy = 20-years. It gave me time to improve.

Mike and Terry tour together all the time, all over the country. To save money they room together at most of their gigs and have turned into the best/worst version of an old married couple that talk over one another to the same person and end up yelling at each other for talking over one another. It’s hilarious to watch, painful to listen to, and always ends with them dismissing each other, then laughing at their own stupidity.

I’m part-time in comedy, but headline most shows I’m on, and am used to certain creature comforts on the road. My own bed. My own room. People around me not yelling at each other and farting themselves awake in the middle of the night. The uncomfortable snugness of three grown men in a small room and me sleeping on the floor under the room’s desk (staring up at god-knows-what substances sticking to the underside) coupled with me being in my final semester at Johns Hopkins, working on my thesis in all my spare time, I decided to book my own room. There was nothing available near the club. Some country singer Shane Combine Chawcheeks Loveyercuzzin had a concert downtown along with Ohio State having their parent’s weekend, left even the Airbnb’s booked up. I found a hotel 6.1 miles away and it had more than three stars and was the only place under $300 for two nights. I would lose money on the weekend but the peace and quiet for everyone would be worth it.

The four-hour trip from Edwardsburg to Dayton was uneventful. It was a beautiful day for driving and when I pulled into the (we’ll call it Shmaymont Shminn) there were a handful of not-so-ratty vehicles outside and the lot was freshly paved. At first blush things seemed OK but then I noticed the hotel doors were all on the outside and that is a huge red flag to most travelers. Everything was clean, bright white, and new looking but outside facing doors are how horror movies start. As I got out of my Jeep and looked at the questionable entrance to the lobby my “avoid rapey/murderey places” sense was tingling. I walked into the lobby and two very confused looking Indian fellows were behind the desk and there were twenty…tuh-wun-tee…people in the lobby screaming at them. Here is what I heard, in order:

“There’s mold all over my room! It’s on the walls, in the ceiling, on the air conditioner, in the bathroom! I want to cancel!!”

“We’re going to sue!”

“There’s a homeless man passed out in my hallway surrounded by drug needles!”

“You triple charged me!”

One lady, her hair clustered with fly-aways and heavy bags under her eyes, looked at me as I stood in line clutching my confirmation papers and said, right before she started yelling, “I think I’d stay somewhere else if I were you.” Then she held her room keys above her head and stomped through the crowd up to the counter.

“I WANT MY MONEY BACK YOU SONOFABITCH! I OPENED UP MY ROOM AND A MAN, A NAKED MAN, WAS STANDING THERE BY MY LUGGAGE, NAKED! NAKED!!”

I got the impression he was naked.

Many times, my brain will take a scenario and play out a situation like a small film. I’m not sure if other people do this, I just figured it was a symptom of my different brain. I pictured this guy standing there, naked, as she walks into the room and after a moment of heavy silence he says, “I was looking for the continental breakfast buffet?”

One-by-one they were refunded for same reasons or different discomforts. Complaints ranging from brown water to no water. Others had recently pissed-on doors from passers-by that frequent outside door type hotels. When I finally addressed the counter, the two frazzled men just stared at me with ‘what now?’ expressions. I smiled and said, “I have a room already next to the club I’m performing at. I just want to cancel my reservation. Hope your day gets better guys.” They may have been complicit in how terrible the place was. Maybe they weren’t. I recognized the looks on their faces and I felt bad for them. Not bad enough to stay.

I made my way through the mix of urban blight and wealth, the same “rich man, poor man” you see around most of the country and arrived at the massive hotel. It reached out in an octopus tangle of walkways and stairs to most of the buildings on the block. I had no idea where to park. I squeaked my Jeep in-between two brick columns next to an old man in a heavy jacket, Canadian Took, and high thigh jogging shorts singing to himself and bouncing his back rhythmically on the wall behind him. As good a sentry to watch my Jeep as any in that part of town. I beeped my car shut and went inside where I found Mike getting yelled at by the manager. She screamed, “I’m out of here! I’ve been here since 5:30!” As she stomped off Mike smiled and said, “We can’t get a cot. Apparently, you’re a fire hazard.” End Part 1.

Talking Craft with The Rough Craft

This won’t be a long one (that’s what she said) but I think it should be added to this collection of a writer talking (writing) about writing. I had the opportunity to spend a bit over three hours speaking to a couple of podcasters/writers/authors from the south by name of Matt and Tom. They run a drinking/writing craft podcast called ‘The Rough Craft’. As a guy who ran a podcast for three years, knowing the ups and downs of the platform, I can tell you these guys are doing it correctly..

Having been in writing/comedy for twenty-five years I’ve had the chance to do radio and casts. Mostly attached to shows attached to the area I’m performing in. These guys, even for being early in the build, do it right. Coupled with the drinking aspect, which, you can follow the link to find out how they open their cast, the questions they ask and the level of banter they bring to the table make for a comfortable, revealing, and heavily informative experience. I could write a lengthy essay on the interview, but why not click the link and see what I’m talking about. FYI there’s some HEAVY subject matter surrounding my book ‘The Slave Trade: The Rise of Justice’. You’ve been forewarned:

youtu.be/MMEHzuFcuoM

King's Inferno and the Impostor Syndrome

Impostor Syndrome and the Modern Writer

“Impostor syndrome is real, yo.”

I’m the stubborn working professional, non-professional. That’s where my tale of the imposter syndrome starts. The first layer in the levels of hell run by…instead of Dante, our guide is Stephen King. There are a few other authors I would say were qualified to lead writers on their journey, but he is the king in more ways than one. Plus, his narration along the way just makes the ride creepier.

When I say I am a pro/non-pro, it is just what it is. I won’t budge. I’m sure my professors at Hopkins probably look at me with disdain, and possibly some mild amusement, but I have become entrenched in my own loose sensibilities when it comes to the written word. Reading this you find me at this weird intersectionality of talking about lofty psychological deep-impact problems like Imposter Syndrome using terms like “bro”, “Ladybro”, and “yo”.

Call it lazy thinking. Slothfulness with the language. I don’t care anymore. I recently said in response to a peer’s paper, “Damn bro…that was fire.” I don’t do it to fly in the face of academic authority. I’m just tired of not being myself, so I’m being myself in a world of scholars. Trust me when I say I feel like I am standing at the feet of monoliths, looking up to the clouds where they sit in their square hats replete with gold tassels, and imagine them looking down on me. Literally and figuratively.  Either they don’t notice me or they do and shake their massive domes. I shrug my shoulders and say, “Welp…I’m here. You let me in the door. I’m not changing except to improve my craft. I’m too old and too tired to fuck with how I speak. I can write like a mother fucker so enjoy me or fail me.” This is where my first bit of imposter syndrome is seated. The first layer of King’s Inferno. Self-deprecating loathing and mistrust of self.

The first layer says, “You skated into this position. Someone missed something. Now, they’ll find you out. People here don’t say ‘bro’ or ‘ladybro’…what the fuck is that even? Dipshit.” I live a lot of different lives. We all do. In my writer iteration one of my selves stays here. Listening to the demons. They fly around my head, wanging me in the skull with old Smith/Corona typewriters, making sure I know that I suck and I’m a liar. Academia, your first agent, your first publishing deal…it’s all the same for us in the first layer.

After looking around the upper layer of King’s Inferno, he takes me down to the second tier. This one is less personal and more shareable. I see many of my fellow authors here. Their bodies trapped in the ground, stomped in the dust, reaching up for help. I grab a hand and pull. No budging. I have to let go. King puts a hand on my shoulder and points at a hole in the ground.

“That shape look familiar?”

It does. It’s shaped like me.

“You belong there. You all belong down here.”

We’re in the layer called, “I am, but I’m not.”

I discover that the poor pale soul wasn’t reaching for me. She was reaching up toward the stars where the god kings/queens sit. King, Goodkind, Tolkien, Hurston, Angelou, Salvatore, Anthony, and others. Their storied visages smiling and staring off into the cosmos, enjoying and writing stories for all time. The grounded writer reaches for them, to touch their greatness. Believing, somehow, that they should have a seat up there.

King leans in and whispers,

“Get closer to the dirt, listen, hear them.”

I squat down. My old-ass knees pop angrily. Then I hear it. Quiet voices. A choir of millions. All saying the same thing.

“I have greatness…but I’ve seen the shit I write…another edit…another edit…another edit…”

I stand up. Knees pop again. Dammit.

I look at Stephen.

“We’re all always reaching, aren’t we?”

He gestures for me to follow. I do. We end up at a sewer plunge. A small paper boat is floating toward the opening in the sidewalk. King points at it. I back away.

“No…no..no! I’ve seen the movies. Ain’t no way I’m going…”

My words are cut short as he grabs me by the back of my head and shoves me down the hole into the darkness.

I fall for some time. Long enough for the screams to stop and I take a small nap. I wake up when my body slams into something semi-soft and loosely piled. I look around and I am surrounded by manuscripts. Millions of manuscripts. I pick one up and look at the title.

I Was Fucked by A Werewolf and Vampire and Zombie and Frankenstein’s Monster Shades of Grey

Jesus Christ. I’m on the slush pile in the middle of a heavy inky darkness. The light overhead is the only thing illuminating the mountain of white paper below me. My footing is uncertain. Wobbly. How perfectly ironic.

In the distance I see headlights coming toward me. The roar of a heavy engine echoes in the vast chamber. I hold up my arms. It’s going to hit me. I have nowhere to go.

At the last moment the headlights turn away and skidding to a stop, right next to me, floating in air, is Mr. King in a beautiful old red Chevy.

“Christine?” I ask.

He slaps the door on the side.

“Nope. This one’s Carla. She doesn’t kill her victims. Only makes the slightly depressed. So, you’ve found the third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, and eighth levels of the inferno. It’s ever growing, that pile of lost hope you’re standing on. So many dreams, so few slots.”

He’s right. This is a pile of hopes and dreams I’m standing on that will never see their intended end. It is part of the impostor syndrome. We writers send these out hoping that our lottery ticket will get picked. It doesn’t matter that there are hundreds of thousands of books in the major stores. It doesn’t matter that the traditional linear novel is slowly going away. It doesn’t matter that at this very moment hundreds of thousands…no…millions of others are writing at this very moment. We tell people we’re actively querying because that means we’re authors. We do it knowing that…

I’ll make it.

I’ll make it…I swear I will.

The thought trails away as King swings the car around. The door opens.

“Hop in, kid. We’ve got one more to go.”

We drive for hours. The hum of the car and Mr. King quietly singing to himself lulls me to sleep. Eventually I wake up in front of my laptop. The screen blank; cursor blinking at me expectantly. My title, ‘Writer’, demands that I pour worlds out, that cursor cutting its way through the unknown jungle to the treasure that lies at the end. Except…there’s no typing. No world crafting. I just stare at the cursor burdened by doubt, guilt, and what feel like existential anchors around my wrists. I should be able to do this freely…words rushing out of me like a damn burst open, the fat belly of the rock torn open and everything flowing free. That’s what people believe I do. I believe I do. But…I’m just here. Cursor like a metronome ticking out my failure’s soundtrack.

I look down at the keyboard and a torn yellow slip of paper sits there. I read the text written on it,

“Welcome to the ninth layer – S.K.”

Hope is a good thing...no it isn't...yes, it is...no, sir, it is not...YES IT IS...

What drives the author aside from the insatiable need to bleed out the stories that are writhing around inside of them, fighting to get out? The typical author that I know would jokingly say “drinking” or “coffee”. Joking but not joking. I am firmly in the coffee category just like one of my favorite protagonists, Jack Reacher. Never met a coffee that I didn’t like.

Deeper. What drives the author to scribble notes on napkins and whip their phones out at funerals and jot down some notes about the direction of a plot or a chunk of dialogue that must not be forgotten, Uncle Darius’s body and eulogy be damned? I think it is hope. Hope that you’ll pound out the letters and they’ll reach fans and agents in defiance of naysayers, your own doubt monsters, and the ever-growing tide of ‘other authors’ that are flooding and clogging the channels that lead to the publishing houses. Hope that your thoughts will matter.

That’s the big one, isn’t it? Validation. I experienced it as a stand-up comedian. You have these ridiculous ideas bouncing around in your dome and in the darkness, somewhere, it made you giggle. Something about it tripped the funny trigger and you think, you hope, that it will trigger others, too. So, you fight the #1 fear that humans have (public speaking) and you toss the idea out into the void and it hangs above the audience, waiting, even if it’s a millisecond, it seems like a millennia. A titter is followed by a chuckle then a chortle then a guffaw and then an old lady pisses her pants. Super validation, holy shit.

Comedy is wicked damn difficult. Good comedy seems nearly impossible at times, until you figure it out. Being an author is even harder. I can tell a quick one-liner and get a laugh. I can go to an open mic and tell dick jokes and get my validation. I can’t go to an open mic for novels and read my 112k word book and get my validation. I have to put my work out there and hope that in the violent fight for the attention span of the modern human that my book gets picked up. Mine out of all of the hundreds of thousands that are bleeding their way into the market every.single.damn.day.

Hope. Hope is a dangerous thing. Hope is the best of things. I heard this beautiful argument in a piece of magical cinema, The Shawshank Redemption. The kind of writing I aspire to given to us by the great Stephen King and Frank Darabont. There. That’s one of my hopes. I also hope to get published by a traditional publisher some day. I’ve already jumped into the self-publishing pool and I’m not unhappy with it. My dad was able to see a book with my name on the cover before he died. He was so proud. I, in turn, was proud. A moment that will always mean more to me than a thousand other good moments in my life strung together. A moment that drives me to continue on toward that publishing goal.

So, I continue to hope. I hope that books continue to be a source of entertainment. I hope that fellow authors whose work I respect gets to see the light of day beyond just hitting the eBook platform and their friends and family being their only customers. I, we, hope humanity cleans itself the hell up and starts acting civil. I hope I don’t get any vanity publishers coming at me anymore disguising themselves as the real deal, only to crash my hope after I hear their bullshit pitch. VPs? Nah, son. Not for me.

So, that’s what drives us. Hope. It is a good thing. Just as Andy Dufresne said. It always will be.

Damn it's Muggid Outside...Humanly

Muggid - Adj. The presence of so much heat and moisture in the air that it becomes a combination of muggy and humid. Muggid. So, what does the presence of oppressive heat and moisture have to do with humanity? Have you ever walked outside and been slapped in the face by a handful of muggid? It’s like mud that coats you from head to toe. No matter what you do you can’t get away from it. It’s always surrounding you to the point of affecting a slight claustrophobia. Right now, that’s what the world, more closely, this country, feels like.

You can’t go outside of your own experience without being slapped in the face with so many examples of unabashed hatred and human muggidity. So many block individuality with, “If you don’t fall in lock-step with my ideals exactly the way I believe, then I hate you.” It goes that extreme. Hate.

Hate is dangerous. Hate leads to justification. I observed a video yesterday of people surrounding some restaurant patrons screaming at them to raise their fist in solidarity to whatever their s’cause was, or else. Aggressive. Threatening. Or else. It’s that OR ELSE that allows for the justification to seat into the soul of the aggressor and then to action. They walk away after they explode their hatred at their target and feel not just justified, but righteous.

If we can’t learn that black or white or whatever compartmentalization that we choose to lay on people, to take each other at a one-at-a-time basis, this will never get better. We’ll destroy our civilization. There are truly evil people out there. People that only care about power. They don’t care about love. They don’t care about anything outside of getting theirs. I promise you, those people are such a small portion of the population. Those are the ones that hold the ideals that you, whoever you are, so despise. Everyone else is somewhere in the middle and are, in general, decent people who are just trying to live and god-willing, do better for themselves and their family. They, the middle, don’t have anything against you or your ideal. If you’d just take time to talk instead of shout, you’d find people on all sides are with love and not hate.

We need to step back and start taking care of each other. If we don’t, we’re going to suffocate each other in a blanket of muggid that will drown us all.

The Frustration of Not Knowing the 'Why'

A wise writer once said that writing and querying is a lot like crafting a perfect love note and then sending it out to one lover after another waiting for one of them to say ‘yes’. The only problem, they’re getting thousands of love notes every month from other suitors. Some, way hotter than you, and others look like they sleep and eat with Billy goats. It doesn’t matter. You’re all lumped into the same pile.

Nobody reads these so, I can say pretty much whatever I want about the process. Even if people were reading these blogs, at this point in my career, I would still write what I wanted to. The time for giving a damn has been left in the distant past. A line that I crossed over when my dad died. The loss of that great man made all of his teachings clear. Seize the moment. Don’t worry what others think. Be tenacious in everything. So, that’s where I’m at right now.

The process is terrible. You send out your manuscript. It’s as perfect as you can make it. You wait and wait and then you get a response.

“We don’t want it.”

Which, in the creative’s mind, translates to “We don’t want you. YOU weren’t good enough this time or any other time for that matter. Why try? Just give up. If we’re rejecting you it’s because the novel that you put over 500 hours of research into as well as interviewing dozens of people for was on par with some 18-year-old kid’s fan fiction about vampire and werewolf fucking that reads as easily as a preschooler’s letter to Santa.”

You sit. You wonder. You go back to the reviews your work’s received in the past. All five-stars and not just from your mom and friends. You look at your accomplishments and where your work’s been published. Seems good. You think “I don’t think I’m lying to myself about the quality of my work.” What does the quality matter if there’s no one there to read it. As I said on Twitter the other day,

“Some days it feels like I’m telling stories to a winding brick wall in an abandoned field with only crickets and lacewings for an audience.”

If there’s no one there to read it, what’s the point? Creating art for art’s sake is an honorable and wonderful hobby. Draining the pool that keeps refilling so that you can walk normally without sloshing around, overloaded with work that needs to get out.

I don’t know. I’ll keep doing my best. Keep honing my query letters. Keep writing. It’s just…like the stand-up comedian who only performs at home in front of a mirror and never touches the stage. It doesn’t matter if she is as funny as a Becky Pedigo or Paula Poundstone. If there’s no audience to hear the jokes, what’s the point? Who knows. Maybe, one day, when I’m eighty-eight and dying under a stack of self-published books that collapsed on my withering frame, I’ll be able to say with my dying breath,

“At least I never quit.”

The Change in Me

So, I have to build a platform. The publishers need first time authors (though I have five books out) to have a platform. I was always thinking that if the work was good enough, it wouldn’t matter if I had a platform. I have been told by voices all over the industry it matters. Because of this I’ve started to focus on Twitter. In the first week I’ve gained 140 followers. I’m pretty happy about that. It’s been organic growth. I’ve had a few people ask me how I’m doing it. It’s simple. I’m connecting with people and being a genuine cheerleader.

What does that mean? It means that I read what people have to say. I absorb it. Discern what is important to them by what they’re saying and then respond in a supportive and positive manner. There’s so much negativity out there I figure I can be one voice jumping in there and being a lighthouse.

I can tell you my positivity toward these people is genuine. I know, because I used to be filled with hate. Hate for life. Hate for people. Hate for everything. On the edge of a breakdown. Why? There were many reasons. Family issues. Cancer. Lost everything in a fire. Relationship drama. Bullied as a child. PTSD. Etc. I balled it all up in my chest and was near exploding until some close people told me to get counseling. My hubris allowed me to think I was above it. I wasn’t. I’m not. I needed it. I needed it and my wonderful and caring counselor helped me to change my perspective and my life. I went from misanthrope to a man with hope. So, now, I am that guy. The one who is urging others to be happy instead of sad.

Am I happy every day. Fuck no. Some days my heart drops down into a dark pool and I feel like I’ll never come out. But, the tools I’ve been given to pull me from those dark places help me to crawl back out and into the light.

I am glad that I am in this place. I will continue to be that guy spreading positivity. I’d rather be irritating and spreading joy. If that helps people come to my ‘platform’ then it’s a great side-effect.

Swing...and a Miss

I got off the slush pile for just a second and it was neat. If you don’t know what a slush pile is, it’s a grouping of submissions from myriad “authors” to any publisher or agent. They go into a pile (if they are unsolicited) and as the publisher/agent can get to them, they send out rejections. See, writing is like the early days of America’s Got Talent and American Idol. There are thousands upon thousands of willing participants that want to live the dream. They want to put their work in front of somebody that can jet them right to stardom and have it accepted. But when their work gets in front of the judges and is laid bare for all to see, the lacking is obvious. Sadly, those with the real talent for the craft are lumped in with the William Hungs (which I am not casting shade on that man, he was adorable and I admire his bravado) of the world) and the publishers have to wade through the slush to find the diamond in the rough.

I know this is a thing. A few years after I began comedy I became one of the house MCs at an “A” club in the Midwest. This was back in ‘95 when I started. Yea though verily when the dinos walked the earth and Keith Richards was yet raised from the dead by a necromancer. I would sit in the sound booth upstairs and watch other comics perform (it was a MAJOR privilege to be allowed upstairs.) The video tapes of comics lined the walls almost from floor to ceiling. The club managers when they had time outside of running the club (which was not much) would look at tapes. It’s just an impossible task to see them all. And when I was able to watch those tapes…I difficult task to sit through all the cringe.

Those stacks of tapes were the slush pile of comedy. I understand the struggle. It’s just the tragedy of life that in those slush piles that there are the truly talented that get lost in the white noise. There’s no way to find them. No laser that will lead you directly to them. Now, in this weird world we live in, there’s an added level to the struggle that many artists are screaming BULLSHIT over. It’s called having a platform. While it makes sense, it’s bullshit.

Essentially the publisher/talent agency/agent has a first question: How many followers do you have? The author/dancer/comic/artist/actor(ress) is way more attractive of an entity if they have a couple hundred thousand followers on social media. Doesn’t matter if they have talent or clean work up front (don’t agree? Look at the editing/writing in fifty shades or Twilight) because the publisher/record label/talent agency wants a set of guaranteed sales. So, if some kid found herself 500,000 followers for farting into a megaphone at strangers, her book/movie idea/etc. will get way more play than a young lady from Delta, Ohio with the next Tale of Two Cities or Cask of Amontillado. It’s gross. It’s tragic. On a level it makes sense.

Staying alive in these industries where EVERYTHING is competing for people’s short attention spans and limited spending ability, these entities need to hedge their bets and mitigate risk. So, if the guy that has two million followers because he grinds on grandmas at music festivals will sell a guaranteed 100k books versus the woman from Delta, they are going with Sir-Grinds-a-Lot. It’s gross but, frankly, understandable. It just breaks the hearts of the true artists that put their time and soul into their work. It also lessens the art world (on all levels) and makes the world a slightly darker place.

Those at the Mt. Everest peak of the game will deliver platitudes like, “The cream will rise to the top…hard work pays off…talent and sweat will always trump luck…” This isn’t true. Not in today’s world. I will hazard a guess that few will read this. Why? Right now I’m in the slush pile.

The Write Stuff

Oh my gawd, he started with a pun! It’s what I do. This is the first of what I hope are many blogs to come. It won’t be a long one (that’s what she said.) First, let me state that I am unequivocally unprofessionally professional. That means I am professional when it suits me, which it normally does not. You read my work you get what you get because I write what I write. It’s not ego. Well, maybe a little. Mostly I get that attitude from a book my mom gave to me when I was a child. It was ‘He Drew as He Pleased’. A sketchbook of the works of Disney artist Albert Hurter. I loved to draw as a kid and I think my mom was telling me to not let convention hold me back from my creativity.

In my earlier incarnations as a writer I sort of took that message to heart. Unfortunately when I tried to let me ‘freak flag fly’ with my writing, no matter who the client was, I was always told to ‘reel it in’. Time and time again, reel it in. I would work with clients to tailor my work to their needs, but the write monster inside was always clawing at every word yelling “add a ‘fuck’ in there for God’s sake!!!” I’d have to reel it in and tell the monster, “Dude, this is a description of a Mercedes for carsdirect.com. They don’t want a ‘fuck’ in there.” That’s been the struggle. The message seeded deep in my mind: He Drew as He Pleased. I remember looking at the artwork in that book and that guy, Mr. Hurter, his mind was like walking a sidewalk through Wonderland high on acid. It was wonderful. If he could, then I can, too. So, I write how I write.

I have serious works out there. I put serious time into research on most of them. Others, I just sit in front of my keyboard and black-out. Hours later I’m a few chapters ahead and wondering how the hell I got down the sidewalk.

I have to close this first missive. In 36 minutes I have a phone conference with a publisher about my first and most important book; Prisoners of Forever’s War. I’ve never had one of these calls before. Nor have I had a book get off the ‘slush pile’. It may change my world. It also might just be a few minutes out of my day and not much will have changed. I’ll have to let you know.