Decaying Monument to Detroit's Glory Days

The Zone: Writing

For a brief moment, I was in it. You know what I'm talking about. The zone of euphoria in which the creative juices flow and words pour out your fingertips, effortlessly. And it's the good stuff that flows not crap.

I was there briefly a week or so ago and I want to return. This is where Michael Jordon went during 50 point games, where Yo Yo Ma goes during a performance, where Leonardo DaVinci and Michael Angelo went during their painting. The throes of creation.

Somehow I lost it. I was tooling along fine, finished a few short stories that came out really well and then nothing the well ran dry, someone turned of the spiggot.

How do you conjure this up? How do you return the that place where the magic happens?

Life seems to get in the way. I think I'll drink about it.

Quote of the Day: Problems

Problems cannot be solved by the same level of thinking that created them.
Albert Einstein

The architectural beauty of Detroit marches slowly into oblivion.

The Pitch: Agent/Publisher

You get a 15 minute face-to-face pitch session with an agent or publisher that you are very interested in hooking up with...professionally.

What do you say?

What do you hand them?

What is your goal?

A Little Humor: Lawyers & Men

A man walks into a bar. He sees a good looking, smartly dressed woman perched on a bar stool.

He walks up behind her and says, "Hi there good looking, how's it going?

She turns around, faces him, looks him straight in the eye and says, "Listen, I'll screw anybody, anytime, anywhere, your place, my place, it doesn't matter. I've been doing it ever since I got out of college. I just flat out love it."

He says, "No kidding, I'm a lawyer too! What firm are you with?"

Quote of the Day: On Failure

Show me a person who's never failed and I'll show you a failure.
Unknown

I do not fear failure. I only fear the "slowing up" of the engine inside of me which is pounding, saying, "Keep going, someone must be on top, why not you?"
George S. Patton

I don't measure a man's success by how high he climbs but how high he bounces when he hits bottom.
George S. Patton

The Novel: The beginning

“The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation”
Henry David Thoreau

Chapter 1

The sea has long been the place of intrigue, battles, struggles and tragic death. Living close by the sea, I became aware of death at an early age. Mother ocean claimed many people close to me by the time I reached adulthood. The intrigue, battles, and struggles came later.

Monday, mid-afternoon, a sweltering late August breeze picked up from the south and induced an instant and persistent all over body sweat. The Atlantic Ocean boiled frothy white and choppy. I pointed the bow west to leave the protection of the Albemarle Sound through the Oregon Inlet at the Outer Banks of North Carolina.

Not the perfect day for a pleasure cruise but with a topless thonged tanned beauty on the bow with drink in hand, a well stocked bar and galley-- summer’s end was too close to waste the opportunity for a short day sail.

The wind whistled through the rigging, topside speakers were loud enough to be heard over the wind and waves with B.B. King trying to figure out how blue he could get.

The borrowed seventies vintage cutter-rigged sloop, the Currahee, cut well through the chop, intermittently slapping a welcome fine mist of seawater back to the cockpit. The boat was big enough to live aboard, rigged for single-handed sailing, and had all the accessories for deep blue water cruising.

The woman swaying to the music and the waves aboard was one Ms. Evangeline “Vangey” S. Whitmore Esquire, 32, thrice divorced, partner in the prestigious law firm of Martin, Whitmore, & Powell of Elizabeth City, North Carolina. Vangey was stunning and she was slumming. Sandy blonde hair cut in the severe executive 2000’s look 5’9” perfectly proportioned elegant deep tan with tan-lines that contrasted sufficiently to make one ponder if there ever was an all over tan. We were on a blind date set up by my best friend Trevor Barrow, Attorney for the damned, owner of the boat.

She yelled something back at me that I couldn’t understand and pointed due North beyond the Point at what appeared to be a dead whale with an array of tropical birds perched on it and a short object protruding up from it. It looked to be about a mile out. I adjusted my heading to intercept it. There was a slight sour smell in the gentle salty breeze.

As we got closer it appeared to be more of a floating mass, reddish-brown, with a mossy texture. It reeked of something between sewage and rotting fish. The closer we got the stronger the odor.
“Alex, is this the way you woo your dates?” Vangy asked with a twisted nose as she rejoined me in the cockpit.
“This wasn’t in the game plan, but it’s a navigational hazard for the nuts in the cigarette boats.”
Her beautiful full lips tightened and twisted into a grin, her nose turned up and she exclaimed, “ your going to protect those loud, obnoxious, stink-pot boats for the penis challenged?”
“Penis challenged, is that a legal term?”
“Longer the boat, bigger the horse power, shorter the penis.” She smiled and giggled. I liked her cute laugh. It was sexy and turned me on more than her jiggling naked breasts.

“Wow, you’re a tough crowd. I hope there isn’t a penis equation for sail boaters.”
She just laughed.

The waves were too choppy for cigarette boats today but the calmness of the protected Sound can be deceiving and the mass was too close to the inlet. I wanted to check it out and alert the Coast Guard if necessary.

As we got close the birds flew away, and what was left was bird droppings and a piece of rusty metal about 3 inches in diameter, sticking up about two feet at a slight angle. I dropped the sails, brought the boat abreast on the starboard side, pointed the bow into the chop, and put out to anchors off the bow and stern with sufficient scope to keep it in relative position. I asked Vangy to hand me the gaff hook from the front deck which she did as I lowered the dingy from the stern davits.

As I came upon the mass, the blast of stench combined with the heat and humidity started a gag reflex in my throat. I removed my bandana from around my neck and tied it over my nose and mouth. I chunked the gaff hook into the mass, tied the handle off to the dingy, and surveyed the mass. It looked like bog that you would find in the Florida Everglades, about the size and shape of a twenty-five foot boat. I swung my leg over the dinghy’s side and tested whether it would support my weight – it did.

I grabbed the protruding rusty object to steady my balance and was surprised when it slowly trembled lose. It was pretty heavy so I tried to hoist it on my shoulder to put it in the dingy. It seemed to catch on something below the surface, and as I pulled at it, there was a distinctive cracking sound and my feet submerged about a foot into the surface of the bog.
“What is it?” Vangy yelled.
“I am not sure, it looks metal and like its been submerged for a very long time.”

I took my Leatherman from its pouch on my hip, opened it to the largest knife blade and began to hack at the base of the object where it met the mass. As I cleared away what I had chopped the blade nicked the rusty object there was a glint of shiny metal, a dark yellow gold and what appeared to be gloves around the object and in the gloves . . . there were hands. Well not really hands but what was left of hands.

The sight of thia startled me so much I lost my balance and fell into the Atlantic. The coolness of the sea was actually refreshing.

I had Vangy retrieve and pitch me some scuba goggles that where in the cockpit of the boat. I was curious as to what the underside of the bog looked like and if there was a body attached to the hands. It was pretty hard to see but it looked like a scuba fin was sticking out of the bottom of the muck.

As I surfaced, Vangy asked again what it was and my mind raced as to how to answer. I decided not to answer until I got back on the Currahee. Getting into a dingy in the choppy Atlantic is a trick that has killed many a person so I skipped the trick and swam over to the Currahee and boarded via the swim ladder.

I was out of breath from the effort and the excitement.

She said “Well?”
“Well, I have a moral and ethical dilemma.” I exhaled.
“Moral and ethical dilemmas are my area of expertise, honey.”
“I didn’t think lawyers had morals or ethics.”
“Oh you’ve be reading too much liberal journalism, I am a Corporate Lawyer we set the standard.”

I figured what the hell, why sugar-coat it, she’s a lawyer. “Well I think that big hunk of metal sticking out is gold of some type and a dead body has its arms around it and is entombed in that big floating turd over there.”

“G….g…..gold, d….d…dead, t…t…turd?” She pointed in the direction of the bog.
I scratched a whelp on my brow left by an infamous Southern mosquito “Yep, I was hoping for wine, woman, and song and our date has ended up gold, dead, and turd. That about sums it up.”

“What are we going to do?” she said........



This is half of the first chapter, the beginning, I'm thinking of shit canning the whole thing. I wrote it 3 months ago and am about 80 pages into it and stuck.

Let me know what you think. Thanks for reading it.

Imagine Waking Up in a Body Bag

Check out Tess Gerritsen's Podcast "Imagine Waking Up in a Body Bag".

Let me know what you think.

Is this the new wave in book advertising?

For anyone interested there is a free Podcast library at Apple's iTunes Music Store. It requires a download but it's worth it. There are 356 free podcasts related to books. Some are a little strange but cool none the less.

Love is Murder Chicago

I am curious if anyone else is going to attend or has in the past attended the Love is Murder Writer's Conference February 3-5 in Chicago.

David Morrell(Author of First Blood, Rambo), J.A. Konrath, and several other authors will be in attendance.

Ths will be my first conference and would like to know what to expect and how to get the most out of it.

Any pearls of wisdom would be greatly appreciated.

The Crab Nebula 

Quote of the Day:Cummings and Going

To be nobody but yourself in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting.
e. e. cummings


I'm living so far beyond my income that we may almost be said to be living apart.
e. e. cummings

What if?...A Blaze of Glory

For those of you playing along at home, we had yesterday a hypothetical posed. A fat job offer that would pull a writer off his or her chosen path to bestsellerdom.

Within this hypothetical situation, I would like to explain the descision made and reasoning behind it.

Suppose, you train your entire life for a specific marathon. You begin the race, and a few miles into it, someone runs up beside you and says, "Hey, ya know over in Chicago, there's this bigger better race. Huge prize money, bennies, prestige, the works. I can get you in. You want to go? But you gotta go right now." Do you break your stride and quit?

Writing, for me is a calling. A calling that has been whispering in my ear for years, slowly getting louder over decades, until now it is screaming at me. I decided to make writing my career four months ago. The first two months I read every book I could get my hands on; about writing, the industry, mystery and thriller related books, blogs, websites, everything.

Two months ago, I joined a critique group. I started blogging a little over a month ago. My website went live this week. In a week I'm going to my first mystery writer's conference. I have 8 completed short stories(3 submitted), 80 pages of a novel series, half of a play, 20 pages of a screenplay, 3 poems, 2 songs, 2 rough chapters of a non-fiction book... and I haven't even broken into a sprint.

It comes down to this - ARE YOU SERIOUS ABOUT YOUR WRITING?

A really good friend of mine once told me about business, "Hey, if it were easy, everybody would be doing it."

So here's what I did; I counteroffered a flexible consulting gig at a high per day rate. I turned down the "job" offer immediately. I sent the counter offer to three former clients with the same terms.

I am far from living under a bridge. I don't live the life style I'm used to but the trade off for me is worth it. And hey, Pabst, Spam, and Ramin noodles don't taste that bad.

My brother likes to say, if your going to go out, "do it in a blaze of glory." My mother says if you're going to mess up you might as well "fuck up at mach-10".

If I faulter, if I fail, it will be one magnificent fire ball...a blaze of glory, fucking up at mach-10.

Spit or Swallow....you decide.

"Joining the chorus of a million big skeptics, Oprah Winfrey has withdrawn her support for embattled memoirist James Frey.

Winfrey confronted the A Million Little Pieces author during a live taping of her show on Thursday, stating that she was "really embarrassed" by her initial decision to stand up for him in the face of allegations that he fabricated large chunks of his book.
"It is difficult for me to talk to you because I feel duped. I really feel duped," Winfrey said to Frey.

The Queen of Daytime catapulted A Million Little Pieces to best-seller status after she selected the so-called memoir for her book club.
Thanks in large part to Winfrey's endorsement, Frey's supposedly true tale of his struggles with addiction and stint in rehab sold 1.77 million copies last year, making it the number-two-selling book of the year behind Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince.

However, after an in-depth investigation by the Smoking Gun Website called major events and details of the book into question, Frey's claims of everything from the amount of time he spent behind bars to undergoing dental surgery without the benefit of Novocaine were discounted.
After finding himself at the center of a media firestorm, Frey began admitting in interviews that he had embellished elements of his tale for dramatic effect, but clung to his mantra that the book represented "the essential truth of my life."

But the staggering discrepancies between the events depicted in Frey's Pieces and the Smoking Gun's report seemed to suggest that the writer was guilty of more than mere embellishment."

Hey, I gave you a choice, this came from E-online where you have no choice...

Quote of the Day: Artists

I've got a peculiar weakness for criminals and artists-neither takes life as it is. Any tragic story has to be in conflict with things as they are.
Stanley Kubrick


Me too Stanley...me too.

Where my head's at... 

What if?

Suppose you are tooling along down your new chosen career path,
and a blast from the past, calls you up and offers you a six figure job
with bennies, a car, travel, and a paid move to a big city - would you take it? -knowing it means 60 to 70 hour weeks, high stress, and no more writing time...

Would you take it?

Bullshit

We are fed it every day for most of our lives, by television, our politicians, religious leaders, news anchors. It surrounds, engulfs, and consumes us - Bullshit.

"Reality" TV Shows, Frey, Jerry Springer, the talking heads - I could go on and on and on.

Truth is in very short supply in America today.

Princeton Professor Emeritas Harry G. Frankfurt recently published a very short philosophy book on the subject, titled appropriately, "ON BULLSHIT". It's about 100 pages and a quick read.

The blurb on Bullshit:

"One of the most salient features of our culture is that there is so much bullshit," Harry G. Frankfurt writes, in what must surely be the most eyebrow-raising opener in modern philosophical prose.

Everyone knows this. Each of us contributes his share. But we tend to take the situation for granted." This compact little book, as pungent as the phenomenon it explores, attempts to articulate a theory of this contemporary scourge--what it is, what it does, and why there's so much of it. It can't be denied; part of the book's charm is the puerile pleasure of reading classic academic discourse punctuated at regular intervals by the word "bullshit."

More pertinent is Frankfurt's focus on intentions--the practice of bullshit, rather than its end result. Bullshitting, as he notes, is not exactly lying, and bullshit remains bullshit whether it's true or false.

The difference lies in the bullshitter's complete disregard for whether what he's saying corresponds to facts in the physical world: he "does not reject the authority of the truth, as the liar does, and oppose himself to it. He pays no attention to it at all. By virtue of this, bullshit is a greater enemy of the truth than lies are."

Check out a short video from the author.

Also, if your interested check out a history of the word "fuck" at Fuck Noir.

Rant on or add to the pile below.

Quote of the Day:The Next Revolution

Listen, the next revolution is gonna be a revolution of ideas.
Bill Hicks

Every day people are straying away from the church and going back to God.
Lenny Bruce

As long as one person lives in darkness then it seems to be a responsibility to tell other people. Bill Hicks

Quote of the Day: I can so relate

I don't get high, but sometimes I wish I did. That way, when I messed up in life I would have an excuse. But right now there's no rehab for stupidity.
Chris Rock

The Deep End

Ok, there is this woman who has inspired me since I met her. A mother of a couple of beautiful young women, a prolific yet unknown writer, and married to a really talented musician.

Many of my friends and I have been goading, coaxing, and badgering her to blog. She has resisted every pitch we have thrown at her.

Yet, today, for what ever reason she has decided to Wade Into The Shallow Waters.

Please check out her blog and say hi at http://mtwillard.blogspot.com/ .

I think she may shock and amaze you....

Know Thyself

We are the sum total of our experiences. The good, the bad, the ugly. Writers, good ones anyway, must know themselves. Writing, for me, has been cathartic and in many ways an introspective exploration of self, motivations, perceptions, and realities.

In a recent blog by Jaye Wells, she explores personality tests in detail. I took the quick down and dirty personality test of four questions and found the results to be strikingly accurate. So accurate in fact that it gave me interesting insight into motivations and actions of my past and why I have ended up as a writer.

Yesterday, in a blog with Ivan Prokopchuk, we explored why tortured writers pour themselves out through their pen. Truth, somehow bleeds through the bullshit. Honesty is somehow apparent on its face.

If you are interested, take the test and let me know how accurate the results are.

I think to know yourself makes one a better writer, both in style and character creation. Because as we all know there is a little bit of us in every character...

Quote of the Day:The Wise

A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool.
William Shakespeare

Quote of the Day: 'scuse me while I kiss the sky

Knowledge speaks, but wisdom listens.
Jimi Hendrix

The March to Convergence Continues

TV coming soon to a cell phone...in your hand.

MSNBC Reports:

"Nokia, Intel, Motorola and other wireless equipment makers have formed an alliance to promote an emerging technology standard for delivering live TV to mobile phones.

The partners said they would work together to develop and spread the use of DVB-H (Digital Video Broadcasting-Handheld) – an open standard for broadcasting TV on wireless equipment – through a group dubbed the Mobile DTV Alliance. "

Convergence is coming folks.

New Website Goes Live

Now live: www.rjbaker.net

Check it out and let me know what you think. It has many, many, bugs but you can get the gist of where I'm heading. This has sucked many hours out of my life, but I think I like the final product.

Anyway, opinions and suggestions are valued. Thanks.

RJB

The Riveting Female

I asked a few women that I know for input on the ultimate character traits for a female heroine in development. So far this is what's been told to me:

In Search of a perfect female character for novel
Characteristics:

Inside:
Smart (not a genius, but bright, and quick)
Interest in some of the following: current events / history / politics / culture
Independent - can take care of herself (NOT needy)
Good sense of humor (and can laugh at herself)
Non-judgmental - can see things from perspectives other then her own
Opinionated and respects that others opinions
Spirited/Passionate/a mild temper
Sassy but not (too) cynical
Sensitive/Caring
Confidence, it's quite the aphrodisiac, (in men as well). (Per Pammy)
Loves Sex with the one she loves(OK, I added this one)
Flaws, (per Dawn)

Outside:
Attractive but not drop-dead. Think about it -- most really gorgeous women, have never had to want/work for anything. They usually are not deep in character. Make her attractive, but believable. And make her so damn interesting/cool/full of attitude that she becomes more attractive.

Of the women you find attractive, how many of them would turn your head if you didn't know them, or only saw a picture? And vise versa -- have you ever met someone that was really attractive physically and then as you got to know them they became less so?

If you're going to spend any time with a woman (or man!) (as a reader will with your character) there's got to be a whole lot more then sex appeal.

Of course this is a book (like a movie) your person doesn't have to be real, so you can make her really gorgeous, but give all the other good stuff too. So you can talk about all the interesting stuff that makes her cool, and oh, yeah, by the way, she's gorgeous too.


Most of this list came from a list graciously prepared by 10-8-ious. Thank you.

Please let me know(Male and female) the characteristics that you find most interesting when reading about a female character.

Quote of the Day: Directions

You got to be careful if you don't know where you're going, because you might not get there.
Yogi Berra

For Anne & MG-I aim to please 

Slim Content

Sorry for the piss poor content of late. I have been diligently working on my main webpage, calender, forum, and short stories for submission. I hope to have the website up tommorow and all of the short stories in the mail Monday morning.

I hope to return to more substantive content. I have been experimenting to see what people like. Any suggestions?

Lawyer Jokes for the Week

A few lawyer jokes for those that appreciate lawyers as much as I do. I'm entitled, for those who don't know, I am one.

How can you tell the difference between a dead skunk and a dead attorney on the road?
The vultures aren't gagging over the skunk.
(varition of ending: skid marks)

What's the difference between a lawyer and a catfish?
One is a slimy, bottom dwelling, scum sucker. The other is a fish.

What's the difference between an attorney and a pit bull?
Jewelry.

If you are stranded on a desert island with Osama, Sadam, and a lawyer, and you have a gun with only two bullets, what do you do?
Shoot the lawyer twice.

What do you call a smiling, sober, courteous person at a bar association convention?
The caterer.

What do lawyers do after they die?
They lie still.

What do lawyers use for birth control?
Their personalities.

I've got lotta more...check back next week.

Quote of the Day: Lawyers

I have suffered from being misunderstood, but I would have suffered a hell of a lot more if I had been understood.

Chase after the truth like all hell and you'll free yourself, even though you never touch its coat tails.

Clarence Darrow

A Shrink for Writers

M.J. Rose turns her blog over to a pyschologist every Friday for analysis of writers issues. An excerpt:

"Every Friday I turn this blog into a couch and let Dr. Sue offer up some writer’s therapy. Don’t forget to send her your questions – Dr.Sue at mindspring.com This week’s column is especially interesting I think – with an intro from Dr. O’Doherty.

A LONG AND WHINING ROAD?

A few weeks ago, an author (“Sensitive Novelist”) wrote to express dismay that some of her friends do not read her books and, in fact, seem uninterested in her career. She asked for help in understanding her reaction of hurt and in overcoming her sensitivity to these perceived rejections...."

This post was inspired from Jaye Well's Blog of today.

Just a Thought...

I am submitting five more short stories over the weekend, and as is common practice in the business and legal world, I am considering including the following sentence in the cover letter:

"If I have not heard from your magazine within 35 days, I will assume you have no interest in the enclosed short story and will submit it to other magazines for consideration."

This is, of course, an attempt to deal with the dreaded "no simultaneous submission" policy of many magazines. I would like to stay within guideline rules but do not want to wait indefinitely for an answer.

What do you think?

Cravin' Buffett, Corona with a lime, the boat, and.....

Quote of the Day

You do ill if you praise, but worse if you censure, what you do not understand.

Leonardo da Vinci

Need a Laugh?

This is right up the Bunion crowd's alley. Check it out:

http://www.chumfm.com/MorningShow/bits/march24.swf

Sent to me by 10-8-ious - one of the asylum crew...

Hapy Birthday....Edgar Allan

The mystery of Edgar Allan Poe continues. Beginning in 1949, Poe's grave has been visited every year by a mystery man, during the early hours of Poe's birthday, January 19th.

It has been reported that a man draped in black with a silver-tipped cane, kneels at the grave for a toast of Martel Cognac and leaves the half-full bottle and three red roses. The three red roses supposedly are in memory of Poe himself, his mother, and his wife. Poe is believed to be buried on the grounds of what is now the University of Maryland Law School in Baltimore.

Considered by many to be the progenitor of detective and crime fiction in the United States, his cause of death at the age of 40, and his actual burial place remain shrouded in mystery and controversy.

Have a shot of Cognac today and think of Edgar...



From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.

Alone, a poem by E.A. Poe

Quote of the Day: Adversity

There is no better than adversity. Every defeat, every heartbreak, every loss, contains its own seed, its own lesson on how to improve your performance the next time.

Malcolm X

Drunk 

Moon's Eye View 

A Question.....?

If you were submitting a short story for possible publication, would you:

A.) Submit to highest paying magazine regardless of genre?

B.) Submit to lesser paying genre related magazine because of possiblilty of recognition from genre specific market and possible entry for genre awards?

C.) Submit it to non-paying genre magazines that are relatively likely to publish the story?

D.) Submit simultainiously to A., B., & C. ? Then chose from whomever accepts-if any.

E). Shove the story in a drawer and drink about it?

This is the quandry. Let me know what you think.

Quote of the Day: On Writing

For a long time now I have tried simply to write the best I can. Sometimes I have good luck and write better than I can.

It's none of their business that you have to learn how to write. Let them think you were born that way.

Ernest Hemingway

Greatest Opening Lines...of Books

What are the best opening lines in lterature? Your Genre? Your all time favorites?

I personally struggle the most to create compelling opening and closing sentences.

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times..." Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities

"We were about to give up and call it a night when somebody dropped a girl off the bridge" John D. McDonald, Darker Than Amber

What is your favorites? In your genre?

Creation of Adam by Michael Angelo 

Quote of the Day: Words to Live By

The question isn't who is going
to let me;
it's who is going to stop me.
Ayn Rand

Damn, tagged....I'm a conscientious objector but

I was trying to stay away from this and Blogshares but in the interest of continuity and fairplay here you go(for my one fan that gives a shit):

Four jobs you have had in your life:
Dishwasher
Soldier
Turnaround Specialist
Pizza Flipper

Four movies you watch over and over:
Pulp Fiction
Monte Python's Meaning of Life
Wallstreet
Snatch

Four places you've lived:
In my head
In my car
On my boat
Lawton, Ok

Four Shows you love to watch:
Charlie Rose Show
Sopranos
Inside the Actor's Studio
Dinner For Five(on IFC)

Four places you've been on vacation:
Las Vegas
Venice
Singapore
Venezuela

Four of your favourite foods:
Prime Rib
Veal Parm
Lobster
Shrimp

Four places you'd rather be right now:
On my sailboat and in the Caribean or French Riviera
Venice, Italy
Paris
#1 on the NYT(if this not available in a loving woman's....arms)

Four sites I visit daily:
Google News
Blogger
Booknotes
Modern Drunkard

Four bloggers you are tagging:
Alphabeter
Microe
10-8-ious
Jaye Wells

Four sheep breeds you could recognise in a field:
Only the wolf in sheeps clothing type

Four people you'd really like to meet (who are alive) and what you would ask them:
Clinton
Castro
Charlie Rose
Quinton Tarrantino

I'd ask them all how they reached the top and stayed there?

Writing and the Blues, The Cedell Davis Story

What moves you?

Art? Music? Literature? Life?

Blues and writing have many parallels.

What does "The Blues" have to do with writing?

I saw the Bluesman Cedell Davis' story in the documentary You See Me Laughin' and it moved me, deeply. Emotionally.

Cedell Davis was born into the poverty and racism of the Mississippi Delta in 1927. He learned to play the harminica and guitar at an early age but between the ages of nine and ten he was struck down with Polio. His hands atrophied from disease, he was no longer able to play guitar or harmonica. He was right handed and unfortunately, Polio took complete use of it.

Not knowing there were rules, norms, and conventions in music, it took Cedell two years to rethink and retool the way he played guitar. Since he couldn't use his right hand, he flipped the guitar over and began to play left handed, upside down. Because his left hand was afflicted as well, he adapted a butter knife to use as a slide, and different tuning to allow him to play.

He played around the Mississipi for many years, able to get around on crutches to most venues and juke joints. One night, a police raid caused a stampede that trampled Cedell on the bandstand. The injuries he recieved caused him to be bound to a wheel chair for the rest of his life.

His music is difficult for some, but his vocal talent is legendary.

To overcome poverty, racism, affliction, and still be out there, doing what you love, bringing enjoyment and music is an inspiration to us all.

As a writer, persistence, heart, faith, and passion will get us to the promised land.

Even if we have to flip our writing upside down, use a butter knife, and change the tuning. Break the rules as if they don't exist.

When life gets hard, think of Cedell Davis.

Quote of the Day: What Do You See?

"In the name of God, stop a moment, cease your work, look around you."

Leo Tolstoy

Top 10 Reasons it SUCKS to be the Starving Mystery Writer

10. Running out of beer cans to return for gas money
9. Running out of crap to sell on eBay for paper, printer ink, stamps, envelopes, and YES, SASEs
8. Reaquiring a taste for 10/$1 Ramin Noodle Soup from college days
7. Start shopping at Save-a-lot where yes sports fans you really save a lot
6. Beer consumption increases and goes from $6 beers at the pub to $6 cases from Walmart
5. You go from 12 Year Old Glenlevit Scotch to month old Aristocrat
4. You go from $50 bottles of wine to looking for $2 wine ala Two-Buck-Chuck & eyeing Ripple
3. European vacation goes from a week in Venice, Italy to a trip to the corner store for #4,5,&6
2. Significant other shit cans you for lack of ambition and attentiveness

And the number one reason:

1. Blogging becomes more interesting and time consuming then sex.

I"ll post the top ten reasons its great to be The Starving Mystery Writer when the above go away.

Quote of the Day: Ideas

Any man who afflicts the human race with ideas must be prepared to see them
misunderstood.

H.L. Mencken


This Post Inspired by a comment of Ivan Prokopchuk.

Narrative: First or Third Person?

I am curious as to the narrative style readers and writers prefer in the various genres.

I like to read and write in the mystery/thriller and hardboiled crime genres. I prefer first person narrative because it allows me into the protagonist's thoughts - in an intimate way. It allows me to relate, very personally, to the characters. Elmore Leonard is one of the few authors in this genre that uses the third person narrative and does it well.

I have read some novels where the writer switches between the two narratives. These seem to be a harder read.

Please tell your genre, which narrative you prefer, and why.

It will be interesting to see the results.

Diego Rivera Mural at the Detroit Art Museum

City as a Novel Character: Detroit

Last night, I was at the local pub, throwing back a few cold ones, and discussing settings for short stories and novels with a buddy. The subject turned to a recurring theme in most of my short stories and novel: Detroit, though in most I don't name it. He was emphatic that if I were going to use Detroit as a setting then I had better go there and get to know it as a city and understand its culture.

Yesterday, I had similar conversation with a novelest friend that is writing a series. He is making a certain type of animal a reoccuring character in his novels. I was intrigued and have been pondering the plot possiblities and parallels of a city as a character too.

All of the authors I admire use a city as a theme or character in their books; Hammet, Chandler, Connelly, Grisham, Dehane, all flavor their stories with the true local vibe that permates each respective city. The cities themselves become alive and as I read their stories, I want to be there, walk the streets, and participate in the life that occurs there.

I have long been intrigued by Detroit. The beauty and grittiness, better than any city, Detroit reflects the effects of America's move from an industrial economy to an information economy and its decline. Hopefully, Detroit will re-estabish itself as a cultural center and destination sometime in the future. Many of the cities' problems and triumphs mirror those of our nation. Blind pigs and speakeasies of the 1920's and thirties, bootlegging, race riots of 1943 and 1967, all reflect that turbulent time. Proserity brought by the automobile and WWII industrial production demonstrate the increase of wealth of our nation for similar reasons. Detroit's earlier influence has left many great marks of achievement across the United States.

So, after reflection, I have decided to make several visits to Detroit to emerce myself in it and its culture. Elmore Leonard lives outside of Detroit and is the only popular author that I know of that uses Detroit as his novel's setting. It will be a central theme and subltle character my coming stories and novels. It is my goal that this addition will add another layer of complexity and flavor to my stories and novels.

Quote of the Day: Persistence

"Nothing in this world can take the place of persistence.

Talent will not; nothing is more common than unsuccessful people with talent.

Genius will not; unrewarded genius is almost a proverb.

Education will not; the world is full of educated derelicts.

Persistence and determination alone are omnipotent.

The slogan "press on" has solved and always will solve the problems of the human race."
Calvin Coolidge

Unattainable beauty of Nature and the Universe:
A photo of the Orion Nebula taken by the Hubble telescope.

Trainwreck...Literati Style

What do you get when you mix, Oprah, a Bestselling Author, and allegations of a pack of lies?

LAWYERS. Lots of 'em.

Ok, I couldn't give a shit about celebs that end up getting their mugshot taken for personal indiscretions, but I have to give it to The Smoking Gun folks. They fucking ROCK.

Check out their posting of a letter sent to them by James Frye's lawyers, in which the last line threatens:

"Any publication disseminated or broadcast of any portion of this letter constitues a breach of confidence and a violation of the Copyright act."

They didn't publish a portion. They published all of it.

As a lawyer, I read that last statement and laughed my ass off. That rates right up there with the "facts" in Fryes memoir.

The only solice is that the posted letter likely cost Frye between one to five thousand dollars.

The internet may yet restore my faith in truth, justice, and the American way.

New Online Service to Explode on Scene 

Coming Soon...Words & Notes New Online Service

Coming very soon is a new online music and literature site featuring the work of struggling writers, musicians and artists. This website will provide an outlet for those who seek a paying outlet for their work, but for whatever reason are unable to penetrate the traditional publishing market place. No SASE required.

The site will provide affordable downloadable music, short stories, excerpts of books, audiobooks, and various merchandising. Stay tuned.

Faded Glory 

Faded....the End of the Short Story Inside

The 1st draft of the end of the short story originally called "Inside" is below. If this is your first visit please read the prior post. I just finished it this morning. Please let me know what you think.



I left the room bewildered. Who was this man? My Grandfather? A painter? An artist? I walked down the hallway and entered his bedroom. Seventies’ vintage furniture, modest but functional, were arranged for ease of use. Lime greens and bright yellows, long out of fashion. At the foot of the bed was a faded green footlocker with an afghan checkered draped over it. I pushed the afghan aside, unclasped the buckles and opened it. The smell of mothballs overwhelmed me.

Inside were the faded remnants of 85 years of life. A government issue .45 in a leather cases placement on top of a folded green dress uniform, gave the appearance of a paper weight on a stack of neat boundless of a life lived. A full breast of medal ribbons hung from the breast of the uniform. More medals that I had ever seen on any General. Now dry rooting symbols of blood spilled on foreign soils.

I removed the top tray containing the gun and uniform and underneath found two near stacks shaped like small pyramids. One stack contained from the bottom up; 3 thick photo albums, loose yellowed black and white photos bundled with a piece of twine, and a bundle of letters held together with a red satin ribbon. The other stack contained four framed diplomas.

My hands began to shake as I removed and tugged at the satin ribbon to release the letters. The first letter envelope had no external markings. I thumbed through the others were addressed to Evelynn Annette Lafayette. They were stamped but not post marked. Two, addressed to T.J. Barrow, were postmarked.

The unmarked envelope was not sealed, so I removed the three faded pages from its home for the last few decades. Confused, I drew the letter closer as I realized that the letter…was addressed to me.

December 12, 1980

Dear Trevor:

I write this to you on the day the jury is to come back with the verdict of my murder trial. You may never get this, but in the hope you do, I would like to explain my life and what lead me to this point . . .


Startled, I heard the back door slam to the kitchen, and then keys jingled as they were placed on a counter in the kitchen.

“Hello?” A woman’s voice called out.

“Yes.”

A very attractive, black woman in her mid-forties, dressed in a business suit came into the bedroom and extended her hand, “You must be Trevor.”

I put my hand into hers and shook it, “Are you the realtor? Did the lawyer send you?”

“Uh, no….” She said as she glanced into the opened footlocker.

“Then you are…?”

“Anne, Anne Williams, please to meet you.”

“Are you the housekeeper?”

“No, um…I am a, uh, was a…friend of TJ, your Grandfather.”

“Friend?”

“Yes, I’ve taken care of this place since your Grandfather was incarcerated.”

“For Twenty-five years?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t understand. His estate paid you to maintain this house for all this time?”

“No, I took no money.”

“But the garden? The paintings? It as if he still lived here.”

“The garden, I attend to, it was his passion, his tranquility, his oasis. The paintings he gave to me when he entered prison, I kept them here because this is where they belong. I left everything as it was in the hopes that he would eventually be released.”

“Why would you do this? Why? Everyone in my family disowned him years ago.”

“He had hard times. He drank. Heavily. But he was a very good man, a kind and gentle man. Talented. Misunderstood. Tormented.”

“How did you meet him?”

“I met him during the murder trial, actually briefly before that, but I got to know him during the trial.”

“So, you worked for the defense team?”

“No, uh…”

“Are you a reporter?”
“No, um, he saved me.”

“Saved you, I don’t…”

“Yes, I was the young girl in the alley. He was drunk and stumbled into the alley with a bottle of booze in his hand. He found me badly beaten and bloody, one man on top of me, the other laughing, waiting for his turn.”

“But the trial. The defense. Why?”

“The laughing man pulled a gun and aimed at TJ. The other got off of me and pulled a knife. TJ fought both of them off. He ended up with the gun and shot them both.”

“But…?”

“Both of those men were white, off duty policemen. He never had a chance in court.” She said. She tried to restrain the tears welling up in her eyes but couldn’t.

“Jesus.”

“Yes, I tried to help him during the trial. I was so grateful to him. It was a racially charged time back then and for a white man to do that for me…well, I was grateful.”

“The letters…?”

“Yes, my maiden name was Evelynn Annette Lafayette. When I got to know him we fell in love. It was a brief but intense affair. He went to prison and I eventually married. But I never forgot. Never forgot what he did for me and the price he paid.”

“The paintings…?”

“He gave those to me. I’ve sold a few to keep the estate funded.”

I didn’t have any words. I couldn’t speak. My fingers went to my lips but I couldn’t utter a sound.

“He gave them to me but I couldn’t accept them. I want you to have them. Look, I have some coffee in the kitchen, why don’t you let me make us some?” She said as she left the room.

I nodded and sat down on the bed. Hand trembling, I still held the letter. I returned my gaze to it, and began to read again:

… War has destroyed this family. Your father was killed in Vietnam when you were a young boy and I was killed - my soul was killed on the battlefields of Africa and Europe. The things I saw and did, changed me forever.
I’ve had many loves in my life. I’ve loved family, gardening, painting, music, Evelynn and you. I am proud you and hope you have a happy and successful life.
As for prison, I feel this is my justice for the things I did in the war. Karma has a way of following you around and paying you back in unexpected ways. I don’t look foreword to it but I will take the punishment without complaint.
Please remember, honor, dignity, and truth are your guiding principles in this life.

Love,

Your Granddad

I didn’t realize, but tears dripped onto the pages as I read those final words. Tears that blotched white stains on the yellowed paper and caused the ink to run lines down the page. Words written twenty-five years ago by a man I had never talked to.

A dusty footlocker and a faded letter, in an all but forgotten house, showed me who my grandfather, the convicted murderer really was... an artist, a lover, and a hero.

THE END

Faded Footlocker 

The Guantlet . . . Run Forrest, Run

I was inspired after yesterday's heated debate over the SASE to write this blog. Ok, that dead horse has been beaten into a bloody heap, but...

A guantlet must be run, and this guantlet is one serious writers must be prepared for. Most of us look to how-to-books, published authors, and industry gurus for guidance in our attempt to become published. We must, however, temper these inputs with our own common sense, morality, and business sense.

There was a movie a couple decades ago, starring Clint Eastwood as a cop, called The Gauntlet. The premise: a cop had to get a witness to the courthouse of a corrupt city. He had conflicts with all levels of government and the climax was a run up Main Street in a self-armored Greyhound bus. Every policeman, SWAT team, marksman, etc., took shots at the cop and his witness on their run for the saftey of the courthouse.

Writers must put on their heavy battle armor of good writing and confidence to run the guantlet of the publishing industry. It is set up for the writer to fail. The writer is the single sperm in millions that has to penetrate the egg. Because of technological advances agents, magazines, and publishers are buried with submittals. The industry is trying to cope with these advances that are revolutionizing publishing and bookselling. The road to publishing is a "weeding out" and "thinning the heard" process. Only the strong will survive. Yes, there may be a few week ones to get through but they are lottery winners.

As Miss Snark pointed out yesterday. Some agents are too busy to read a mss without an SASE. Ok, a guy living in a shack in BFE writes the next For Whom The Bell Tolls, it hits a busy agents desk by mail, because this guy has no concept of technology, he doesn't include an SASE, and his mss gets shit canned. Ok, the guy in BFE is discouraged, but sends it to another agent and then another until guess what? There is a hungry agent out there who reads every submittal. He gets published. This, I think, was J.A. Konrath's point. If you choose to take his advise, then the only response you will EVER get is from an interested agent or publisher.

My point, first and foremost, is write a good damn book. More than a good damn book, the best book you can write. Then polish it, hone it, and sharpen it. Look for an agent in whatever method you feel makes sound business sense.

Then RUN the guantlet.

At the end of The Guantlet, Clint and his witness emerge from the bulletridden Greyhound, blooded and wounded, but very much unduanted, defiant...and successful.

You can too.

I throw down the guantlet...

Broken into a Million Little Pieces.. Memoir Fact or Fiction

American book-buying public duped again?

The Washington Post reported today author James Frey's publisher, Random House, will offer refunds to disgruntled book buyers after allegations that his memoir "A Million Little Pieces" was not factual. Frey's book has sold approximately 1.77 million copies and was reported to be the best selling non-fiction book of 2005.

An exerpt:

"Central to Frey's book, published in 2003, is his assertion that he was charged with assaulting an Ohio police officer with his car, with inciting a riot, with possession of crack cocaine and felony drunk driving -- charges that he wrote resulted in a three-month prison term.

The Smoking Gun, owned by Court TV, reported that most of those claims were not borne out by police records or by interviews with police and court officials. The Web site published the police officer's report of the key 1992 incident which shows Frey was found drunk in his car without a driver's license but did not, as he wrote, serve time the incident or behave in the outrageous manner portrayed in his book.

Smoking Gun editor William Bastone told Reuters, "In off-the-record interviews with us, Frey admitted embellishing facts in the book for dramatic impact."

Frey has since threatened to sue The Smoking Gun.

Frey's book was published in hardcover in 2003 and then in trade paperback with the coveted Oprah's Book Club endorsement in late September. Winfrey has not commented on the controversy surrounding the book.

Frey's October appearance on Winfrey's talk show made him an overnight literary sensation. Since the controversy, "A Million Little Pieces" has remained the No. 1 selling book on Amazon.com."

Frey's response, "I stand by my book, and my life, and I won't dignify this bullshit with any sort of further response," written this week on his personal Web site, www.bigjimindustries.com.

Don't Bring Me Down painting by Sarah Jane Szikora
 

To SASE on Not To SASE that is THE Question.

Ok, I think too much digital ink and time has been spilled on the subject but since Ms. Snark didn't post my comment on her blog, I feel drawn into the fray.

For those few of you who don't know an SASE is a self addressed stamped envelope usually requested or required by agents, publishers, magazines, and others for inclusion with any submittals of work for review.

This morning, the blogshere is a buzz with two opposing views, one by rising author Joe Konrath, and the other by anonomous literary agent, Miss Snark.

And the comment I made that was not posted:

"A Tale of Two Tragedies:

First, a good writer fails to find the good agent because an SASE is not included in the submittal and the agent refuses to read writer's work.

Second, a good agent fails to find the good writer because the writer didn't include an SASE.

What a shitty plot. You decide."

Ok, I gave her qudos for her reading 100 synopses, but quashing freedom of speech -that's just wrong. Ok, maybe I shouldn't have said "shitty" but if you think of the implications, the word fits.

This is a ridiculous argument. Honestly, good writers will get published whether or not they send an SASE. Some before others.

Do you WANT an agent that excludes your work because there was no SASE? Does an agent WANT a writer who does not follow stated guidlines requiring SASEs?

As a writer do what you feel comfortable with. Joe Konrath bases his opinion on struggling through the publication process. We dont even know if Miss Snark really is an agent and if she is there are plenty of others out there. Agents are buried with submittals so her point is well taken. Read both arguments and you decide.

Short Story . . . Inside

Camels killed him. Not the humped type, the non-filtered type. The kind cigarette companies’ peddle to children today from a mammal in a black leather jacket, sunglasses, and walks upright – the cool camel. Two packs a day, since he was twelve.

The old murderer finally got his due – an agonizing death and sent straight to hell. That’s what they said at his funeral and wake at Jackson State Prison. Whispered really. He was Eighty-five years old, my grandfather. I didn’t know him and really only saw him twice in my life. Once, in the cheap coffin at the funeral home provided by the state of Michigan, and once at his sentencing. Both times he looked frail and old. Lifeless. Soulless. His eyes had a disinterested, unrepentant quality. He glared at the sentencing judge, as he received the life sentence, he shrugged with the import of a speeding ticket.

Most of his life the black sheep of our family, and later a complete outcast, he was born in the depression era. He suffered poverty and racial injustice most of his life. I knew he served in World War II but no one in my family ever spoke of it or him.

T. Jeffers Barrow, TJ - my family called him, if they called him at all, lived a solitary life, living in the same house for sixty years before he was sent to prison. The neighborhood he lived in went from middle class in the fifties and faced decline into an inner-city urban crime center in the seventies. He stayed and endured.

After countless trips to jail for drunk driving, assaulting a police officer, and aggravated assault, he was convicted of the double homicide of two white men. They were in the process of attempting to rape a young black woman. It didn’t come out in trial. He shot them both in an alley downtown. This did come out at trial. During sentencing, he said nothing in his defense. The public defender did a poor job. An all white jury found him guilty on both counts of homicide and a weapons charge.

After the funeral, his attorney called to inform me of a will. I was confused because as far as I knew my grandfather didn’t own anything, but I told him I would be at the probate hearing when scheduled.

A few months later, the only present at the probate hearing was the attorney, the judge, a court reporter, and I. The court declared me sole heir. There had been a small trust. It kept his house out of tax arrears and provided for its up keep. The trust did not have much money left so the house and its contents were all estate assets. The attorney handed me the key and we shook hands as I left the courtroom.

I drove over to the house thinking I would check it out and call a realtor to immediately sell it. The drive took me through some neighborhoods I wouldn’t want to be in at night but as I got closer to the address white suburbia returned. Older houses, well maintained, with fresh colors and late model cars in their driveways.

I pulled my car into the driveway. It was an attractive single story house. Sandstone fascia, faded cedar sided, gray slate roof. It looked well maintained, like someone was on vacation and could return any day.

I got out of the car, circled the house, and came around to the back. I walked up the stairs to the backdoor and noticed the backyard was a beautiful garden. It had cobblestone-paved walkways wound around the small yard. Various colorful flowers, spice plants, trees of odd varieties, populated the space. A high wooded privacy fence encircled the garden providing and odd quiet and intimacy. It was glorious, a hidden garden beyond the reaches of a ghetto, a place of solitude.

The key to the back door opened it with little effort. Inside, a bright white kitchen was warmed by afternoon sunlight. I walked through the house and looked at all the rooms. I stopped when I opened the door to a spare bedroom overlooking the garden. I was hit with the immediate distinctive smell of paint and turpentine. On the back wall a glass double French door bathed the rooms interior with light. In it was an artist’s studio full of paintings.

Vibrant paintings of varied styles were stacked in the corner and one frozen in incompletion, clamped in the wooden easel. Baroque framed pastel floral paintings, abstracts in oil, pointillism, and impressionistic landscapes, hung on the walls like a museum. In one of the other corners was a beat-up guitar with various color paint streaks and fingerprints.

I thumbed through the paintings in the stack. I peered at the each painting on the wall.

The signature on everyone, in the lower right hand corner -T.J. Barrow.

I left the room bewildered. Who was this man? My Grandfather? A painter? An artist? Murderer? I walked down the hallway and entered his bedroom. Seventies’ vintage furniture, modest but functional, were arranged for ease of use. Lime green and browns, long out of fashion. At the foot of the bed was a faded army issue footlocker with an afghan checkered draped over it. I pushed the afghan aside, unclasped the buckles, and opened it. The smell of mothballs overwhelmed me.

Inside were the faded remnants of 85 years of life. A government issue .45 in a leather cases placement on top of a folded green dress uniform, gave the appearance of a paper weight on a stack of the neat boundles of a life lived. A full breast of medal ribbons hung from the front pocket of the uniform. More medals then I had ever seen on any General. Now dry roting symbols of blood spilled on foreign soils.

I removed the top tray containing the gun and uniform and underneath found two symetric stacks shaped like small pyramids. One stack contained from the bottom up; 3 thick photo albums, loose yellowed black and white photos bundled with a piece of twine, and a bundle of letters held together with a red satin ribbon. The other stack contained four framed diplomas.

My hands began to shake as I removed and tugged at the satin ribbon to release the letters. The first letter envelope had no external markings. I thumbed through the others addressed to Evelynn Annette Lafayette. They were stamped but not post marked. Two, addressed to T.J. Barrow, were postmarked.
The unmarked envelope was not sealed, so I removed the three faded pages from its home for the last few decades.

Confused, I drew the letter closer as I realized that the letter…was addressed to me.


Ok, there's a bunch of "thats" and a couple "was" but I'm worin on that...oops.

Around the Corner painting by Sarah Jane Szikora

The Road to Success

The road to success for a successful professional fiction writer appears to have three levels; publication, mid-list, bestsellerdom.

Any author, if they gain entry into the land of the published, can travel these roads. Potholes abound on each.

I have yet to figure out how a writer can make a living writing short fiction, unless they do it prolifically, with cross genre and non-fiction magazines. So, what follows pertains to the novelist.

Publication is not the panacea. It's the ticket at the gate. Many first-time published authors sell poorly and are never published again. Thier books quickly go out of print and can be found, if at all, on Amazon for a penny. Therefore, selection of a supportive publishing house is crucial. Gone are the days where big houses nurture an author over several books. Some smaller genre publishers may still do these but most have limited marketing support and budgets. Most published authors must diligently self-promote to advance to the second level of success. Author J.A. Konrath is the Svengali of self-promotion, so any authors should check out his blog and website.

Mid-list authors are those that sell well enough for the publishing houses to earn back thier investment and make some profit. These are good authors with a loyal fan base. They may be in niche genres that do not generate the requisite numbers to push the author into th next level. As I understand it, mid-list authors have taken a beating recently, being dropped from larger houses as they seek the next bestselling author. The mid-list author makes a living. A good mid-list author makes a good living.

Bestsellerdom. This is the brass ring. The whole enchilada. Fame, fortune, expensive hotels, jets, etc. But there's a down side. There are expectations and demands on bestselling authors to remain bestselling. In many cases, A book a year must be produced. Bestselling author, Tess Gerritson has an excellent blog, titled Cranking Them Out, explaining this phenomenon. If sales lag, bestsellers can decend the tiers of authorship or fall off all together.

These is one thing that a novelist should keep in mind when selecting a publishing house. Will the house keep your books in print? An interesting thing happens on your way to the top level. Demand for your previous books increase proportionately with fame. I.e. backlist gets pulled up. Be aware.

I am still in the research phase of my career and am surveying the field. If any published authors or other find errors in my assessment please piont them out.

The road to bestsellerdom is a rocky one filled with cavernous pot holes. The task is to navigate this road without being swallowed.

Yearn to burn

Fingers grip my heart
In a grasp that threatens, calls,
then beckons

Tearing, ripping,
Creeping, seeping
No release the probing tendrils

Can’t appease its lust, its thirst
Until cast down, until worse

Lying, face down in the dirt
I gasp, it finally leaves me
Its control over me complete.

A Short Beginning . . . 2 a.m.

Ok, after the public flogging I received for my recent wank-fic post, I have attempted this morning to redeem myself. I am exploring and experimenting so please be patient.

The following is the beginning of a short story or scene for my novel. I hope you like it. Let me know.


At 2 a.m., Harry opened the front door to his apartment in the suburbs of Detroit and was surprised to see his - soon to be ex-wife - tears and mascara lines steaming down her face. Her tears dripped onto her pink silk blouse leaving dark blotched circles. Her blonde hair was tussled as if she had been recently awoken.

“What’s wrong Patty?”

“I – I, it’s Cindy, Gary just called, she’s been k…k…killed … in a ….ca…ca…car accident.” She said in rapid staccato sobs.

She plunged into Harry’s arms and he enveloped her. They held each other tightly.

“I’m sorry, Patty, I heard it on the police radio.” He said as he patted her head and kissed her cheek.

“She was my best friend.”

“I know.” He cupped her face in his hands and turned it upward to look into her beautiful cobalt-blue eyes, “I am so sorry.”

She gazed into his eyes with loving affection and kissed him. It was a slow lingering kiss, which nearly buckled Harry’s knees. He pulled her inside and closed the door. He hadn't been with another woman since their seperation.

The divorce proceedings had been brutal and ongoing for two years. She had started going out with a guy from work named Dick Cabitt for the last two months. The relationship hurt Harry deeply but he tried not to show it. He and Patty had separated because of the hours he spent as a Detroit Homicide Detective and his inattentiveness towards her.

Patty had told him she needed to find herself. Yeah, find her self in the arms of another man, Harry thought. But tonight she was in his arms. He led her back to his bedroom and they slowly undressed.

The lovemaking was very good, as it had always been. It was sweet and tender; two lovers that knew each other's bodies well. The passion, however, was gone - at least from her. Harry told her, over and over that he loved her but she couldn’t or wouldn't say it back. When it was over, she wept into the pillow. Harry tried to hold her but she pushed him away. He still loved her but there was nothing he could do to bring her back.

“This was a mistake. I am sorry,” Harry said as he stood up naked and groped for his robe. He turned his head away from her so she could not see the tears welling in his eyes. This was salt in an already festering wound. “This was wrong. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, Harry. I needed you.”

“I love you Patty.” Harry said as he left her there in bed and walked out to the kitchenette. He opened a cabinet door and pulled out a large old-fashioned glass and a bottle of Glenlivet Scotch. He poured two fingers worth into the glass and drank it down. He was shaking.

Patty came out of the bedroom wearing his shirt and nothing else, “Harry?”

He didn’t speak. He poured another two fingers of Scotch.

“Harry? Talk to me.”

He threw the Scotch to the back of his throat and swallowed. He shivered and looked at her through pained eyes.

“Don’t you understand?”

“What?”

“That I love you. Still.”

“I can’t handle a romantic relationship with you right now.” She said as she took the glass from Harry’s hand and placed it into the sink.

“What was that?” He asked, as he swept his hand towards the bedroom.

“I was in pain. I thought you wanted it.”

“I did but now I wish we hadn’t”

They were silent for a few moments.

“Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“Gary said that the police suspect foul play in Cindy’s death.”

“Foul play?”

“Yes.”

Writer's Inventory

The first full week of 2006 has come to a close. For the one or two people that may give a rat's ass and for personal posterity sake, the following is my professional writing career inventory:

Short stories. 4 complete. 3 in various stages of completion. 10 story ideas germinating. The completed ones will be polished and submitted to magazines by the end of next week. 3 fiction. 1 non-fiction.

Novel. 50 pages complete, but gestation period is reaching fever pitch.

Play. Acts I and part of Act II written, research is ongoing.

Screenplay. A zygote of idea is working its way to the page.

Non-Fiction Small Business book. Co-writing. First two chapters are close to draft completion.

Critique Group. Joined Mystery Writer's Critique Group.

Book Club. I am going to join a Mystery Book Club

Songs. Working on two original songs.

Webpage. In development.

Blog. Working on better content and building readership.

Bookstores. I am researching big box and independent bookstores to understand marketing, product placement, bookshelf arrangement, categories, advertising schemes, etc.

Agent. Making a contact list of ten agents that I am interested in.

Publisher. Reviewing and researching all genre related publishers and trying to find a house or imprint that I could grow and prosper with. I am trying to discern editorial quality from books each imprint produces. Where is Max Perkins when you need him?

Publishing House. Discussing the possiblity of starting up an online literary and music publishing house for unknown authors and musicians.

Writer's Associations. I will join Mystery Writers of America, International Thriller Writers, Private Eye Writers of America this year.

Conferences and Tradeshows. I will attend at least one writer conference, likely Tony Hillerman's in New Mexico, and two tradeshows, likely of Dark and Stormy Nights, Boucheron, and maybe the Sister's in Crime conference.


So for those of you that think I just blog and drink - I've been busy.

Free Range Chickens at the Hat Last Night 

God, I love Poe

E.L. Doctorow was on the Charlie Rose Show the other night and he said Poe was America's best - bad writer.

I have to admit, I've never read Mr. Doctorow, but if he could write what follows, I would.

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep–while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
Dream Within a Dream, Edgar Allen Poe


Read it, live it, know it....Mr. Doctorow.

Bloody Marys....RJB Style

Ok, I admire author Joe Konrath, but I have to question his drunkard-ness because of the lame drink recipes he picks for his books. His website and blog kick mortal ass but the drinks, well...

For those of you who don't know him, he signed a 3 and then a 6 book deal with Hyperion and has created a semi-hardboiled series around a Chicago woman detective named Jacqueline Daniels aka Jack Daniels. The gimmic is each book's name is a drink, his first being Bloody Mary. A recipe starts every book.

Ok, he is a great writer and the P.T. Barnum of authorship, but his drink recipes suck. They are swill that no respectable drunk would consume.

So, in the interest of non-sobriety, here is my Bloody Mary recipe:

Spicy V8
Dash of Worcestershire Sauce
Dash of dill pickle juice
A few shakes of pepper
A dab of horseradish sauce
Habanero Tabasco Sauce (As much as you can stand)
Stoli's Vodka(The hot pepper one - as much as required)
Garnish with 3 olives and a spicey asparagas spear (and three shrimp, if you're on the East Coast)
NO ICE(Dilution factor)

Try it. I'm dinking one now...

If you have a better recipe, please add it. I'm always looking to modify mine.

Another Hardboiled Story . . . beginning

Ok, Hardboiled is an aquired taste. Here a scene, in the hardboiled vien, without the graphic violence. I wrote this yesterday. It's a scene that I will fit into a short story or the novel. I am actually using the short story to develope my novel characters. Detective Harry Beam, is a Detroit homicide detective that is a minor character in my novel. What do you think?


The Deposit

“Let me get this straight, you want me to take this cup back into the procedure room, jerk off in it, and bring it back to you?” Harry asked, as he held a plastic cup, about the size of a shot glass, up in front of the nurse’s face.

“Yes, that’s correct.” The nurse raised her eyebrows and said, “You and your wife have been trying to have a child for two years. She’s checked out fine. Now it’s your turn.”

“Uh, you know I’m a police officer?” He said as he could feel his face get hot and flush.

“Yes, Mr. Beam, I know you are, but does that mean you don’t masturbate?” This she said with a smile. She seemed to be enjoying this now.

“I er, . . . um,”

“In a recent national medical study it was reported that 95% of males and 89% of female Americans do. Are you one of the 5% Mr. Beam?” She said with obvious pleasure.

“Look, I um, … think I need a bigger cup.”

“Make do.” She said with a nod and a grimace.

“Can I get some help? I mean….”

She reached under the nurse’s station counter, pulled out a well-worn copy of Big Beaver magazine, and handed it to him.

“I uh,. . . not exactly the type of help I meant.”

“Mr. Beam, I have other patients to see. As Woody Allen once said ‘Hey, don’t knock masturbation, it’s sex with someone.’ ” She turned on her heals and walked away.

Bewildered, Harry stood for a moment, sighed, and slowly walked towards the procedure room like a man on death row - heading for the chair.

Elvis Sighting

It was Elvis' birthday yesterday when I got to the local pub.

It's difficult to say but I may have made of an ass of myself, I'm sure I'll hear about it....

The hangover cure, from the Homebrewer's Bible:
Shower - hot as you can stand it
B complex vitamins 2
Water - as much as you can drink
Excedrin 2 (120 mg caffine does wonders)

it aint workin' so I'm guessin' hair of the dog is next on the agenda...

Help I've Fallen . . .

I'm doing the pub crawl tonight. I hope not to end up in what Modern Drunkard Magazine calls the "Six Circles of Hangover Hell."

And yes, Virginia, there really is a Modern Drunkard Magazine... I think its British.

The Stop - Hardboiled Fiction ala RJB

Ok, I have been writing. Here is the beginning of a short story I started today:

The Stop

Harry got out of the Wayne County supplied black Chevrolet Impala; he tried to shake off the car’s putrid smell of ass sweat, vomit, and fast food but it wouldn’t go away – it had permeated his clothes.

As he surveyed the scene, it looked like a hundred police-car pileup - headlights blaring, bubble gums rotating. It wasn’t, of course, it was responders to an officer-down distress call.

The cars were all surrounding, in a half circle, a squad car parked behind a late model Black Porsche 911, both engines still running. Both squad car doors were opened with two officers laying face down, blood pools around their heads.

Harry approached the Precinct Captain, who was standing a few feet away from the crime scene.

“What have we got?” Harry asked as he placed an unlit cigarette between his lips.

“Take a look . . . but don’t move anything. The crime scene techs haven’t taken pictures yet. This is some sick shit – and I thought I’d seen enough sick shit for a lifetime. All DOA and hey don't light that damn thing.” The Captain said as he pulled the cigarette from Harry's mouth.

Harry shrugged and walked over to the squad car to look at the carnage. At first glance, it appeared to be a textbook traffic stop. The squad car was canted at a slight angle to divert oncoming traffic. The officer’s guns were still in their holsters.

The two patrol officers had been shot twice in the head, execution style. As he walked to the front of the car he stared at the back of a tall blonde haired woman, the apparent drive of the car. She was bent face forward over the gull wing of the Porsche, naked from the waist down, legs spread eagled, blood had streamed down her inner thighs, and her hair was matted with clotted blood. Something was dangling between her legs.

Harry stooped down to get a closer look.

“Holy mother of... A fucking fish?”



Let me know...

Blogger hits the Big Time

Or Wankette hits the NYT. Blogger turned author, Ana Marie Cox, has a good week as reported in Slushpile:

Let’s recap…
Monday: Quits her day job
Tuesday: Gets reviewed in the New York Times
Wednesday: Signs a mid-six-figure book deal($275,000 advance)
Thursday: Gets profiled in the New York Times

Who would ever think that sex in Washington would sell....

Sony's New e-Reader

Is this the future of books?

Unvieled at a recent Vegas geek show, Sony's new e-Reader will cost between $300 to $400. With battery life estimated to be about 7,500 page turns.

An MIT professor is working on an eReader/Laptop project whose targeted retail price is $100.

The promised technological convergence continues.

Sick and Wrong . . .

I borrowed the pic from John Rickard's Blog.

I'm speechless..... and I think I might hurl.

Good Luck to The Boys....

Two of my buddies leave tommorow for New Orleans to volunteer for the reconstruction. Wild Bill, aka "Bill The Dog" and Capt. Dave aka "Tolerence" will embark on the journey of a lifetime tommorow - I'll be with you in spirit.

I could say don't do anything I wouldn't do, but as you all know there isn't much I wouldn't do. God I love Burboun Street. Remember to go to Lafitte's, if it wasn't washed away.

Good luck, be safe, drive carefully, and as always .... just so no! Or no thank you, or maybe later, or . . .

And in case of emergency - Break Glass or Not. Have fun.

and now for a little something of substance . . .

Jim Haung is a Trifecta in the publishing industry; an Editor and Publisher of the Drood Mystery Review, a mystery review periodical, an owner of The Mystery Company , an independent mystery bookstore in Indiana, and Editor and Publisher of Crum Creek Press, a small independant publishing house. He reads, reviews, sells, buys, publishes and edits books. He lives the publishing industry and, in specific, the mystery genre.

I met Jim briefly, several years ago in Kalamazoo, Michigan when he owned the now defunct, Deadly Passions Bookstore. Unfortantely, Deadly Passions did not survive to the see the revitalization that downtown Kalamazoo has experienced in recent years. I enjoyed his store, attentive staff, and the events staged there.

In 2004 he was asked by the writer's conference, of Dark and Stormy Nights, to be the keynote speaker. He chose to speak honestly and openly about writing, the publishing industry, bookselling. From his unique prospective, he gives some enlightening and biting critiques of the industry as it exists today. Titled: The conventional wisdom isn't just wrong, it's dangerous.
It delivers.

Here is an exerpt:
"What I’m going do to this morning is talk about a few specific ideas about publishing and about writing, and how they relate to the mystery genre. Now I understand that our genre isn’t necessarily representative of publishing as a whole — for one thing, our genre actually respects the value of rational thought. All I care about are mysteries — I’ve devoted my life to the promotion of this genre, through my newsletter, my bookstore, the reference books that I’ve edited and the other books I’ve also published. Because you’re here this morning, I expect that mysteries are what you care about too.
I’ll give you the bottom line first, and as I rattle off these points, I expect you’ll see how your experience as mystery readers serves you well.
Don’t accept "obvious" explanations, especially when "everyone" agrees they’re true. Think for yourself.
This is a business, and it’s not a bad thing that this is a business.
Stay true to your vision. Like the detective who gathers suspects to single out the least likely as the true killer, know how to persuade others to accept your vision.
That’s my message. Now let’s talk about how these points apply to specific cases. . . "

I have read it several times and come away with something different each time. I hope you enjoy it too.

A Sex Scene with Pain

"Life's a piece of shit when you look at it." That's my favorite song from Monty Python's Life of Brian. It's sacrelegious. I know, but I like it. There's a certain irony, on many levels.

So stands the mystery of life. The yin with the yang. The sorrow and the joy. The inevitability of loss ... and the shit.

I mentioned a sex scene a week or so ago, so I decided to post it tonight.

Can a writer bleed on a page through his pen?

Bitter betrayal, half truths, untruths, lies, and damn lies - it's a broken record that plays over and over. Chck, chck, chck. Shakesperian isn't it.

Here is the scene. I hope you like it. It cost me:

"As I drive down the road to nowhere, a familiar song comes on the radio. I turn it up and begin to sing along. Suddenly, as if teleported back in time, I am in a place long ago, on a beach blanket with a beautiful woman. The rhythm of waves beat gently, to and fro, onto the sandy shore. Darkness envelopes us. I'm with the woman that I will love, desperately. Eternally.

I can smell her perfume, taste her salty sweat commingled with a hint of wine on her lips and tongue. I feel her breast heave slightly as her nipple hardens against my palm. She lifts her hips as I gently pull off her bikini bottoms. She moans; it makes me shiver. Our breath mingles in short jagged gasps.

Her breath quickens. My breath is hot on her lips as my hips press harder against hers, trying to get closer, nearer, more intimate. I can't get close enough. Our lips and tongues taunt each other. There is a desperation. This wasn't suppose to happen. We are just friends. She grinds harder back against me, whispering encouragement and things said in the heat of passion, things said to a someone that you are utterly and completely in love with…it was our first time.

A horn blows, jarring me back to reality. The song ends; the memory ends. The silence pulls me back to the present with a feeling of loss. The memory so fresh and vivid that I still can feel her touch, taste her lips, smell her scent, and here her sighs.

I long for her. Ache for her. I loved her so; I love her still.

We would have married a year ago today. The date was set. The church selected. Dress bought. Invitations printed and mailed. Honeymoon plans arranged.

Tragedy is instant. It doesn't hesitate. It gives no warning. It happens and someone is amputated from your life. A gaping hole, a sucking chest wound, leaving only pain, loss, grief, and guilt.

At the funeral I was the helpless antelope on the nature show, devoured by lions with bewilderment in my eyes, hoping for a quick end that will never come."

Please let me know what you think. Its going in the novel in some incarnation.

To melodramatic? Cliche? Though I can relate, it is fiction folks.

Mission Control 

Voyeurism . . . The Inner Sanctum

Lee Goldberg has an interesting recent blogpost that raises certain prurient and voyueristic impulses. His post exposes the place where writers do thier magic. No, not the MTV Cribs, celebrity jumps on the bed and dry humps a pillow type magic -where they write.

Pictured above is where I write. Mission Control - the Stratolounger (The Lazyboy for the younger crowd).

As you can see, I remain, The Starving Mystery Writer.

Please feel free to post yours - if you dare. Check out Lee's post. It is interesting.

Lest We Forget the Cost of Freedom

American dead in Iraq was reported in a January 1, 2006 NY Times article as 2,178 killed and 15,995 wounded. Iraqi dead are estimated at 30,000.

My heart goes out too the families and pray for the safe return of our service men and women.

In America, about 16,000 people were murdered -
57 of which were policemen. America, it appears, is deadlier than Iraq.

Hungover and "Exploring The Female Side"

I got bit by Copperhead last night. Not the snake - the beer. It still stings. Yikes. A green beer hangover.

Anyway, after spending most of my adult life trying to get into women's pants, I am now going to attempt to get into one's head. Not that this is new for me - trying to figure out how a woman thinks - but trying to write from one's prospective.

I am writing a short story where a woman is the hero. I don't think I truely understand women, so, I think it may be a difficult journey. They are an enigma to me.

The adventure begins.... any advice?

The Big Bang or A Blinding Flash of the Obvious

There was a book on business management several years ago called something like A Swift Kick in the Head subtitled: A Blinding Flash of the Obvious.

The book's premise was that we tend to overlook or discount the obvious and instead toil with the elaborate or obscure. In many cases, the answers to our most difficult questions, is staring us right in the face.

Eureka. I've found it. The more I write; the better I write. The more I read; the better I write.

Imagine that. A swift kick in the head.

Write, write, write. read, read, read.

Eating Crow about Miss Snark

Ok, I have to admit an error. A couple of months ago when I decided to make writing a career, I cruised the blogsphere in search of valuable blogsites related to the writing profession.

When I originally visited Miss Snark, The Literary Agent, I thought it was crap mostly because of her biting critical comments with bitchy overtones. Today I revisited the site and found that she had accepted and critiqued 100 synopses from aspiring authors free of charge. She displayed and commented on most of the synopses in her blog. I started reading her comments and found them to be honest, insightful, and on point.

I have to tip my hat to her. Anyone who wades through 100 synopses disserves an apology and admiration from me. She has a Crapometer for rating the entries and many of her comments are hilarious.

Anyway, for these reasons I have added her link to my blog links. Please check it out. It is helpful, informative, and entertaining.

A New Day . . . A New Year

Dawn of a new year. The future emerges with great anticipation and excitement.

As I look in the rearview mirror, the holiday season and 2005 quickly and thankfully recede from view. It's time to get serious, get motivated, and get to work.

Happy New Year.

2006. Here I am.

The Revolution begins.