Theme of Life

I'm continuing small edits and finishing touches on both of my books. "Grand Rouge" and "Sheila, Quest for the Golden Sapphire". I held off on the edits for a short time, (A week and half really) because the stories had begun to stale off in my mind and I wasn't enjoying the experience. Long, countless hours at the day job wasn't helping. I started to see certain grammatical and punctuation errors that I had missed even after I'd ran through the manuscripts several times--and after I'd taken said scenes, to my critique group and allowed them( certain ones, I'm certain, morph into blood sucking vampires when they review my work--kidding!) to hack away at my drivel. But by and far the biggest piece that I've realized throughout this draft is that theme has its own way of sneaking up on you. It gives you that kind of much needed head slap that helps you TRULY finish your work. It's true, the mind and the heart knows things. And most times theme is there, in the details, sitting next to the devil--with two fingers behind his head and pointing him out to you. "Right here, here he is. Now, get him the hell out of here, so can we finished the damn thing."
     It's things I've found about my characters that had been there, but I never noticed. Things, or phrases that they repeat when I'm at the wheel of their point of view and trying to ensure that they are not jumping out of character. But I understand that theme is life, somtimes ironic, sometimes mean, sometimes painful. The best thing about Theme, though, (when its not forced, like a square in a round peg) is that it is beautiful. To me anyway.  Nothings more rewarding than when you see on paper a story, that you wrote, with subtle hints about real life and how things could turn out, or have. It's that story question that we all have in our minds and hearts, which may or may not have an answer. For new writers, like me, keep writing and it will show up, I'm proof. It collects all your thoughts and plots throughout the story and brings them together, before you. And when the smoke clears and the sanding and leveling are complete, it nods its head and shows you, "See kid, this is what you were trying to say. . .  beautiful, hunh?" 

Indeed. 

Bully for the Ages

As a writer, I cover the topic of bullying in a wide range of areas. When we first think of the bully, (well me anyway), I think of the schoolyard kid that we used to call the Super Duper Senior! Or whatever the corresponding grade lap was--freshman, sophomore, junior, whatever. Most cases this individual had failed one grade or another over and over. Of course, the traditional bully was bigger, ugly; a gorilla or goon of sorts. And he waited outside the lunchroom to clobber some poor schmuck over the head that didn't give up his chocolate milk fast enough.
     But now is different. Not so much mentally but physically. Some of the aforementioned goons, have traded in their khaki pants and faded shirts for a suit and tie. They throw their weight around in the workplace, authority is the new weopon of choice and integrity is the chocolate milk.
     As adults we try to find that common ground with our children that attempts to help them understand that most situations they encounter at school is something we've dealt with in the past. It doesn't always work. Think about it! Did it work when you were a kid? To us, most mom and dad's were well away from the olden days (As my son so eloquently puts it). And you thought, kids today aren't like they were back then. It's not the same, you say.
I submit that it is. Bullying has been around for ages and as long we human beings walk the earth there's going to be a bully. Different skin colors, different clothes, different hair, different modus operandi, but a bully is a bully. We just have to learn how to deal with them.
     In some jobs, the boss is the bully. He pushes everybody around and treats some  of the employees better than others. So, how do we handle that? One suggestion is to reach into your backpack and grab your english literature book (hardback, of course) and smash it against his nose, causing his eyes to water and his nose to bleed, like my main character Sheila did to Ethan, bully in the story.. But since some of us have bills to pay, I suggest a more civilized approach. Stand up for yourself--respectfully, especially if it's your boss. And if he or she can't respect that then maybe its time to find another job. But it has to be done, or the pushing around could go on forever. Everyday your throat will be dry from that dry peanut butter topped slice of cake that the cafeteria lady gives you, because you let the Goon take your chocolate milk. Now, in a world so busy that even our kids need android cell phones, we have to learn to stand up for ourselves and each other. And hopefully not with violence, but with wisdom.  It reminds me of an old proverb that said, "If you don't find an identity for yourself, there's someone who will give you one."     

SHEILA first draft complete!

After one year of working my way through a story that buzzed to get out of my head, I've finally finished the first book of a trilogy. Sheila, is a young adult fantasy novel about a troubled young girl who finds out she is a descendant of a rare breed of Lycan. Once I had Sheila, the character, firmly in my head (tomboy, feisty(though these two undoubtedly go hand and hand), smart, adventurous; yet, troubled, lonely and curious). I know what your thinking, Doesn't sound like any teenager I know, (HA!), I was ready to go forward, and I did. The story has been alot of fun writing; exciting at times, but other times heart wrenching, and still others, scary. 
I am now beginning second draft and wildly excited because I get to take the first adventure with Sheila, Gina and Agog all over again. But this time, I get to hone and polish where the pen may have gotten a tidbit excited. Soon, I'll publish several excerpts of the story right here on the site, so stay tune!

FYI, in the coming months, I will have a few chapters of both novels posted on Anthology.com. The HarperCollins site for unpublished writers.

Gearing up for the new writers conference in April. Revise, revise, revise. Still not working? Chunk it. Start over. This is how I'm spending my writing time. Of course it takes years to become brave enough to just chunk your babies. But it is true in what we study in the craft, and I believe it was Hemingway who said, "First drafts are crap!" Forgive me if it was not Ernest but the is true. Sometimes it takes two or three rewrites to get it right, and then it still sucks a fat one. 
More great writers coming to this years shindig. I'm excited and sorry if this post is so short but my writing time is paper thin.
Later

Revise, revise, revise . . .

Mine

As we begin 2012, I feel compelled to reflect on 2011 and what it has meant for me; writing career, as well as personal. In 2011 I was fortunate enough to attend a writers conference--one that showcased an intelligent group of accomplished, yet, humble authors, editors and publishers. For the first time I sat with these, industry pros, and pitched my novel "Grand Rouge" and attempted to relay my enthusiasm and fervor for the story. Let me start by saying that I have never been the gaudy, Barnum and Bailey type (at least I would like to think so). And I still cringe when I think of having to toot my own horn in front of anybody, particularly, an agent or publisher. Now, I do realize that this is a necessary evil, albeit, if I am, indeed, trying to sale my work.  But I think its the part where I have show why the book is the next great thing( which of course, is what these things are all about, right? Otherwise, why would a literary agent take you on?) that makes me uneasy.
     But the experience taught me several things about the process of publication, helping me refill the tank and push on in the pursuit of represenatation and publicaton. First, I had three ,10 minute, pitch sessions, where  I was allowed to discuss my story and try to "wow" the audience of one (agent, publisher). Like most, I think, I spent the time before each session, worrying incessantly about getting in the hot seat and fumbling my words, making a complete idiot of myself. Or, sitting brightly and eagerly infront of the agent or publisher and prattling off the details of my pitch so fast and incoherently that ,said audience, does not understand one word that is coming out of my mouth. But the experience was a good one and yes I was very nervous, feeling the sweat spring up in the palm of my hand. In these brief conversations, I was able to find out what agents and publishers think about my story and, in part, find out what they are looking for. It was truly an enlightening experience and I hold the knowledge very close to me, knowing that I am growing as a writer and novelist.
      So, why do I say this here? It's because I feel that it is important that each year that we are blessed to still be here, that we grow from what we learn. And to me, a great measuring stick is to look back in retrospect and find something that has propelled us forward and taught us something we did not know before, no matter how small we think it may be. My experience in front of these industry professionals gave me courage and insight into my own soul. I recieved three requests to read more, one of which was to see the full (which is still out). And I know that some agents actually respond and some don't. But for me its another step in the process to success. For me, (the self proclaimed non-Barnum and Bailey type), now, I know I can do it. Perhaps for you, it's something else.
      

A Thanksgiving Gift!

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

I feel excited today and very blessed to have had a good year. A good year to report that the family is healthy and that I've been able to string together a few dollars and pay some bills. Aside from the obvious fact that we are living and breathing, I think we all have much to be thankful for. I'm sure, you--dear reader will agree. Today, most of us will sit around with family and talk and eat, and eat, and eat and eat. Then we'll break for awhile and watch the Macy's parade (for sure) and of course, the men will be in their caves shouting at the T.V.'s --"Catch the damn ball man; see, see--that's why they can't win a bowl game!"  The women will be in the kitchen laughing, talking, dancing and enjoying the peace and harmony that comes so rare in all  of our day to day walk. And at some point we will all wind down and opine on the meaning of Thanksgiving; some will do it together and others will meditate individually. However you do it is okay, so long as its done. Life has many meanings for all of us and its up to us to find out its translation. For me its through the writing. And yes, it took me awhile to understand why putting words on page could give me a satisfaction like it does. But I finally got it, the expression of oneself in art is part of life and it allows us to trigger more creative and self fulfilling clusters of being.
Below is an excerpt that I have been tinkering with for some time. It was once a part of my novel entitled "Grand Rouge" but I am still contemplating its place in the story(Kind of like how we try to find our place in the world). But this will be a first read and my gift to you for reading this blog. "Grand Rouge," is a Thriller/Supernatural story and this is the antagonists first kill in the dreary, cursed Bonne Idee woods. . .

A killers first

As he traipsed past tall pine trees, and brushed through the wavering willow fronds covered in early morning dew, Wesley Waters wondered if he were the world’s first homeless, millionaire. He grinned and then continued along under the soft gaze of a freshly rising sun. His long unkempt hair, his unbrushed teeth, his three month old beard scraping away at the skin beneath, all served as a reminder of his own selfishness.  

     He glanced around and thought, any bush would be good--preferably one without the thorns. He found one sitting amidst a group of second growth trees. He dropped his knapsack off to the left and yanked his pants down.

     Nearby toads croaked and Wesley felt Grand Rouges morning breath against the hair on his exposed legs; it sent cold slivers up his back. He’d always preferred the natural music of the south versus the gas guzzling, air polluting noise of the city. But he supposed they both were there own jungle in many ways.

     It had been a year since distancing himself from his old life. Distancing himself from friends and family. But more importantly was distancing himself from his father, Kelvin Waters, a big time Wall Street tycoon.  His millionaire father who thought he could say or do anything he wanted.  He thought that money could solve all problems. And the part that Wesley hated the most, the part that made him just want to throw up when he thought of it, was that he had been just like his dad. 

     “I’m nothing like you!” he shouted, his voice resonating in the misty morning air.

      He was squat beneath the trees and could now see the sun pinch through some of its orange and brown leaves. Charcoal-green moss hung from its branches and he heard a low howling sound. But it sounded more guttural, more menacing than a wild dog or raccoon.  No, this sound emanated from somewhere deeper, bigger. He thought about wolves or bobcats. He’d heard that bobcats were well known to be aggressive in the wilderness. But would a bobcat, howl? He snorted. Come on ol’ boy don’t let your imagination get the best of you. Daddy sure as hell wouldn’t like that would he?  He’d be pissed if he even thought he smelled fear or anything that he considered weak. But daddy aint here is he? If he were . . .  Wesley thought, he’d walk right up to the motherfucker and tell him to stick it where the sun don’t glow.

     Somewhere off to his right, but near, Wesley heard the crackle of dried leaves. He gathered himself, pulling his pants up and he had begun to close his zipper when something moved behind the tree startling him and caused him to catch the bare skin of his testicles.

     “Shit!” he screeched, his voice stretching into more of a salivated whistle. His eyes filled with tears and he managed to loosen the catch, but he kept his gaze in the direction of the sound.

     For an absurd second, he thought about how much he truly disliked those damn pants.  They were too hot and clammy to the legs, but he didn’t have much choice. It was get them from the dumpster he’d pilfered through in Atlanta, or keep the same ones he’d had on for God knew how long.

     There was an ominous whisper in the air and as he peered up, a white glow past through the trees and disappeared--somewhere distant he heard a sort of maniacal, mocking laughter.

     “What the hell,” he said in a low voice. He stared horrified at the space where the glow vanished and the direction of the laughter. Wesley stumbled back and planted his foot in his own excrement. But he didn’t take notice, nor had he seen the light traces of blood, now leaking from the zippers locked teeth.   

     Another crackle of leaves, but this time he saw what made the sound. A shadow stood at the base of the tree, a figure, its shoulders rising and falling in the blackened haze of the woods.

     He started to run towards the highway from which he’d come.  He bumped a metal sign that read, “Entering: The Bonne Idee Trail”, and knocked it from its warbled nail causing it to fall to the Timothy grass below.  Wait…my knapsack, he thought. He turned awkwardly, looking behind him and tripped, landing painfully on one knee. He winced and then got up.

     The next thing he felt was like being hit in the face with a Louisville slugger.  White light sprayed his vision, sparkling stars corkscrewed through his head and he tasted the salty stench of blood on his tongue.

      Something grabbed him tight around the neck. And as his vision, a blurred mixture of light and dark, cleared, he saw that a man stood over him. Not a man, but a thing. Some-thing, its face was hideous.

     “What do you want?” Wesley garbled through a mouthful of broken teeth and blood. “Please, please . . . I’ve got a lot of money. . .” He felt his voice fleeing away, choked off by the monsters beastly hands.  One of the things eyes was swollen, almost shut, but with the other it gazed at him in the swallow of the trees.

     Behind the thing, slivers of sunlight shot through in all directions, but it was enough to see its intention. In its hand--an axe--chipped at the edge, drawn back and glinting in one of the slivers of light. Then, Wesley saw his life, both rich and homeless—flash, and then fade.

A Freudian Thought

This week, while enjoying a nice cold one,  I read up on some of the encapsulating and profound teachings of the nuerologlists, Sigmund Freud. I can remember learning about the well chronicled and widely taught concepts of pyscoanalysis,  the id, the ego and the super ego. The infamous id, no doubt, being the strongest in many of us, always fascinated me the most because it catered to the wants and the often  times, wayward or selfish desires of people. Desires, I think we all agree, is what gets some into trouble the most. The old adage, What looks good to you, is not always good for you, comes to mind.  The superego is probably the one that (though, not quite as much fun as the eclectic, id) stays our hand, when we, for example, see someone counting big face one hundred dollar bills in public, and keeps us from smashing them over the head with a stick, grabbing the loot, and then racing to the car for the get away. Or for some--selling sex, knowingly passing on an STD, burglary, auto theft, lying, cheating and murder. Maybe its the great ego itself, that holds down the fort, chiefly because of its sensible and reserved tact. It's ability to balance our mini-me devils and angels, the ones that stand upon each shoulder when any, one, moral question in our lives is posed.  I'm not sure, but I think we can all agree that if others knew the thoughts we sometime harbored in our head, they would probably be shocked, shaken, horrified, ghost-faced, embarassed and probably pissed at that awful thought. Probably, on that really bad thought, you know the one! Yeah, that one! They'd run like hell. But perhaps I'm wrong. Perhaps I'm just another babbling blogger--blah,blah,blah. Maybe know one else was thinking it. Maybe, its just me. That's fine, let's drink anyhow--cheers!  One for the team . . .