The President of Mid-World??

An article in the October issue of The Writer starts with the following.

--"Out of many, we are one." Before he became president, Barack Obama uttered these words in 2008...--

I didn't realize our President was a Stephen King fan. Some of you may be thinking of the term Roland Deschain would use in place of the above quote. It jumped to my mind as soon as I read the first line of the article.

Ka-tet. Though Roland would describe it as, "one from many".

Couldn't help but exploit the above to make reference to The Dark Tower.

Just finished John Connolly's 4th Charlie Parker novel, The White Road, which is another solid entry in a fantastic series. Parker, and his pregnant girlfriend, continue to feel the weight of their encounter with the Reverend Faulkner from the conclusion of the previous novel, The Killing Kind. Right now, I'm about halfway through Daniel Silva's latest, The Rembrandt Affair. Gabriel Allon is back to chasing Old Masters art looted by the Third Reich. Dependable so far.

I also just finished listening to Nelson DeMille's 5th John Cory novel, The Lion, which brings a violent conclusion to the Asad Khalil string.

What are we reading?

I'm always hoping to pick something up and really have it knock my socks off.

This has occurred a handful of times in the last few years - Stephen King's 'Salem's Lot, The Black Dahlia by James Ellroy (masterful mystery layout, this guy is a genius), John Connolly's Every Dead Thing (currently my favorite author).

Mostly, though, I just end up thinking - That wasn't bad.

Wow, what a ringing endorsement.

The thing is, the one piece of advice that every published author will offer in unison is to read and read widely. Identify what you like and what you'd like to write. Identify who does it well. Who does your style resemble? Then read that person and similar authors. Read them from an author's point of view (as well as a fan and reader's) and study what makes them so good. Read in that same genre and go find the seminal works. Raymond Chandler is what stands out to me as someone I ought to have read for this reason - hard boiled, American mysteries.

Then, when you've done all that, read wider. Read horror and comedies and science fiction and literary fiction and historical fiction. Read the masters in all these categories and more. Read with an eye for what works and what doesn't. Read with an eye for what works for certain genres but not others. Be a student of the game, to use a widely used sports reference.

I ask you all, mostly so I can stop wasting time on stuff that 'isn't bad' - What have you read over the last few years that has truly stood out to you as outstanding?

Oh, and two additional things.
1) I'm trying out the amazon associates marketing program and will occasionally provide links like the below to books I may occasionally mention. They will only be items I have read and highly recommend. Please don't click them and then get upset with me.
2) Speaking of Amazon, they have now brought down the once mighty Barnes & Noble. I'm more and more curious about Kindle with each passing day, especially now that you can get a WiFi only version for $139 (I think these things were over $400 when they debuted. I'd like to hear your thoughts on e-reading, if you have any. Will the ultimate victor be Apple and the iPad?

"There is no good writing; there is only good rewriting."

Who said it?

Well, Justice Louis Brandeis of course. You knew that, you say. Was on the tip of your tongue, yes?

This month's issue of The Writer Magazine has a quick blurb by Noelle Stern on writer's block (and no, I won't capitalize it, for you or anyone). Ms. Stern quotes His Honor as a way of dispelling all the excuses you can think of and make you feel guilty for having thought them.

No, that's not her intent. I added that inference for you.

But the quote made me think. I wrote 1,000 words this past Friday night - my first writing other than the previous blog post since 6/30/09. That's right; and from the same guy who quoted Harper Lee on Facebook today. I'm not proud it has gotten away from me for such a length of time, but I do know why.

I've been getting killed at work.
I'm stressed.
I have three young and demanding children.
Blah, blah, blah.

I can't tell you how many people say, when we get around to discussing writing, "Oh, I've always thought I'd like to try that."

And I think of Jedi Master Yoda from a certain iconic trilogy. "Do or do not. There is no try."

"You should try," I say instead. And that's when the reasons come - reasons why one cannot. I know them. I've used them. I'm angry at them.

The one that bothers me most is, "It won't be any good." It certainly won't, but that's beside the point. I started out intent to write a novel. I wouldn't be satisfied with short works or scenes to polish style or dialogue or to practice building characters or weaving together plot. I was afraid I couldn't wrap things up nicely in 2,000 words. No, not me. I'd need 80,000 at least.

Was the first draft of my first novel good? Are you kidding me? Of course not. Alas, my rewriting (see this entry's title) has been slow and slowed further by the rampant idea for my second novel, a new job and the myriad excuses above.

Write because writing is fun. Write because it is difficult and rewarding. Write because it isn't television or Facebook or the demands of job and family. Write because it is escape. I will. I do.

By the way, anyone in or from the 'East Bay' interested in contributing to a joint blog/literary journal on reading and writing? Any topic therein is on the table.

8:30

I hooked a right, passing the tiny kitchen and down the familiar hallway. My journey neared an anticlimactic end. My shoes scuffed the aging rug and I could smell the men's bathroom. No clicking or clacking assaulted my ears. No conversation leaped from around corners or struggled to reach me from behind solid oak doors. My bag swung and thumped my hip softly with each step.

To my left, I saw the 'clearing at the end of the path'. Mis-matched monitors stood shoulder to shoulder, comforting each other. To their left a dusty coffee cup held strong to three pens of warring colors. Red separated blue from black, unsure of which one may initiate the final ink battle. A ten-key calculator with with faded four-five-six slept, waiting to be called upon to confirm certain suspicions I may or may not wrestle with that day.

I sat. The green vinyl (there's always a place for vinyl, in any story of any length) chair yielded, squeaking as I rotated my knees to proper position. Two cell phones leaped from respective pockets and settled themselves to the keyboard's left. One vibrated happily - twice - and went silent once more.

It is 8:30 am and I am now ready to start another day.

The New Pursuit

All,

I've been away (working like a dog) for some time. I haven't written a single word of fiction in nearly a year. I have felt the pull of blogging for a few weeks now.

I refer you to www.thenewpursuit.com, a new blog written by a friend of mine.

The last four years of my life have left me with questions. Some are repetitive and naive, others are unanswerable. Most revolve around - What is important?

thenewpursuit.com is one man's answer to that last.

Well done, Bill.

Return to Writing?

Honestly, I've been begging my mindset to return. Six months of a new job and 55-hour weeks have been my focus and I'm still all out. But I need to turn on inspiration, just to get the ball rolling. After a little re-reading I post the following from page 28 of A Hunger.



CHAPTER 7 (1,638 words)
Through the exterior door I banged a right and saw the batwing saloon doors and only darkness beyond. A dozen strings of dull colored beads hung, still as death, from floor to ceiling. I paused. My mind raced, trying to find a movie that I identified with beads but I came up short.



I touched the right bat wing and pushed through the beads. The scent of sandalwood almost knocked me over and I saw the burner to my right, propped on a chest-high shelf just inside the beads.



Beyond the incense, if my nose managed to get beyond the incense, I was presented with a short hallway. The corridor was maybe fifteen feet long and bathed in soft yellow light emanating from a tiny wooden lamp sitting atop a knee-high wooden stool. At the lamp, the hall dog-legged to the left and I stepped up into Ms. Twilight’s abode proper.



The one step up brought me off solid flooring and onto a series of pillows which seemed to be mostly flat and purple in color. Each was the same, the pattern tiny white asterisks probably meant as stars, and together they traced a path to a low rectangular table. More soft light to either side of the table was accentuated by a UV light. The ultra-violet shone on my clothes as a neon purple glow, rather than light, and the dust on my shirt and khaki shorts stood out bright white.


The word radioactive came to mind as I knelt before the table. Where’s the sake tea?


“Ms. Twilight bids you welcome.” The female voice was high and sexy and not at all what I’d expected. Ms. Twilight of the third person sat forward from a reclined position.


The UV light messed with my judgment of colors and details but I thought she had long blond hair pulled back in a flowing pony tail. She was both cute and young, from what I could tell – no more than 30 years old. Then again, she was playing the lighting well in this, Ms. Twilight’s lair, and the shadows could be concealing that worth concealing. Her clothing was very I Dream of Jeannie – the silk negligee top with open arms and low cut – and naturally, my eyes took in her cleavage.


Make a note here. Women don’t need perfect round breasts or large breasts to pull off stunning cleavage. And don’t let WonderBra ads fool you either; they’re just accessories. A woman who works on the arrangement and plays with what she has can make it work. I digress, yes, but the larger meandering point was just to say that great cleavage doesn’t mean a great rack and vice versa. I apologize.


Anyway, Ms. Twilight gestured toward a triangular plastic sign propped on the far side of the table. It stated her flat fee of $15. I wanted to ask if things would finish up with a lap dance. Instead, I produced three crumpled fives and handed them over.


“Ms. Twilight thanks you in advance.” She grimaced at the state of the bills, but accepted them just the same. The money disappeared beneath the table.


I glanced around the room as my former Abe Lincolns rustled a bit in Ms. Twilight’s skirt. The walls were completely obscured by draped rugs. One depicted what seemed to be an ancient cave painting of a deer and a hunter. Another was a simple floral pattern. A third was dominated by an Indian chakra wheel.


An easel stood in one corner propping up a bulging three-ring binder. Was it a spell book?


“Ms. Twilight is also an accomplished tattoo artist.”


“Of course,” I agreed. If I had a car, I would have asked if I could also get my oil changed.
What the hell was I doing in here? I’d seen Bianca – spoken with her, even. It wasn’t Avery or her ghost. Getting in Ms. Twilight’s line had served its purpose and Bianca had disappeared from my radar immediately thereafter, with help from a sausage. Why hadn’t I high-tailed it right then and there? Shit!


“What can Ms. Twilight do for you this evening?”


I should have found the third-person thing annoying. But her voice, or should I say Ms. Twilight’s voice, was so smooth. Enticing. Fortunate, then, that I encounter her in the safety of all these cushions and soft light, where the most oppressing aspect of her presence was the sandalwood scent. I pictured her in a bikini, seated on a high crag of rocks at an unforgiving shoreline. She’d be singing siren-like to oncoming row boats, prodding fishermen and soldier types to their watery doom.


“You read palms?”


Ms. Twilight smiled. “The most intimate of tasks Ms. Twilight offers. Fewer and fewer of my patrons ask for the sight that comes from human touch.”


I was a little surprised by this business trend. What with Ms. Twilight’s silky voice and, well, I already said my piece on her chest.


She leaned closer, her breasts now resting on the table and I offered up my right arm. I placed my elbow on the table, arm-wrestling style, and she grasped my wrist. With strength I wasn’t ready for, Ms. Twilight twisted hard, wrenching my thumb to her left and bringing my palm up. My elbow jabbed my ribs and I winced. What a tough guy I am.


Fortune-telling, tarot, palms, tattoos, maritime mischief and Greco-Roman wristlocks. Ms. Twilight was proving to be a series of consecutive surprises.


“Life-line, love-line and accumulation of wealth and power line, right?” Sometimes my wit fails me, I’ll admit, but I was struggling with being manhandled the moment before.


Ms. Twilight’s mouth evened out at my poke at her profession, which she surely took quite serious. “Much can be gleaned from one’s palm. None of it, however, comes from the fold-lines of your hand.” Her tone was harder. The seduction was over. I was in the spider’s web and now she was going to explain every aspect of the surgical procedure to her helpless patient.


Ms. Twilight observed my palm, my whole hand. She turned it over a few times, studying something closely. Eyes narrowed, she said, “The art of reading palms is sometimes referred to as Chiromancy and draws its Hindu and Romani roots some five thousand years ago.”


“Romani?” I said, fearful she may break my wrist for being ignorant.


“Gypsies,” she said evenly, never looking away from her thorough inspection of my hand.
“In Ancient Greece, each area of the hand and fingers were associated with a god or goddess. Elsewhere, these same areas were given associations with the signs of the Zodiac. The overall shape of the hand is, in some methods, interpreted and determined to be one of the four basic geological elements – Earth, Air, Water or Fire.


“And I don’t have to tell you what skeptics say about palm reading.”


“No.” I gave a weak chuckle, trying to seem informed. Yes, I can laugh at your industry jokes.
She paused to give me a blank, yet clearly disappointed, look.


“I don’t deal with any of this. I read palms simply as a vehicle, or a medium.” She finished her inspection and straightened up, pushing my hand to the surface of the table, palm up.
“Electric currents in the human body, obviously most important in the brain and heart, are also concentrated in the hands. Hands, the objects of a majority of voluntary directions from the brain, are therefore hotbeds for the type of concentration that gives one such as Ms. Twilight her sight. It doesn’t hurt, either, that the hands are filled with some of the most sensitive nerve endings and heavily used during sexual encounters, reciprocating pleasure back to the brain. Consider next time you get your paw on your girlfriend’s tit.”


This last froze me. It was no more than a coincidental statement and one she’d probably send to a thousand other horny little morons and dirty middle-aged yuppies. Nonetheless, if the caress of her soft fingers on my palm was making me hard or putting me to sleep (or both), I was paying strict attention after that. I straightened my back and cleared my throat, trying to indicate to Ms. Twilight a more professional approach.


“Now,” she said, “to business.” Her eyes widened and her smile returned. Was there a hint of hunger in it? “I’ll ask that you hold as still as you can. Also, unless I ask you a question, please don’t speak until I release your hand.” I wondered if she’d slipped into the first-person by accident, or if business meant it was time to raise the curtain and shed the schtick.
Ms. Twilight’s left hand held mine a little tighter and the play the fingers of her right hand made over my palm slowed. She pressed them to my skin harder with the slower motion, as if trying to sponge up some of that electricity she’d mentioned before. I thought of Mr. Spock and Vulcan mind melds.


She closed her eyes and tilted her head down a bit, her nose six inches from her own hands and the dance her fingers performed. Her breathing slowed and grew louder.


The sexual quality of her breathing and the concentration on her face, not to mention the slow, steady caress of her fingers was wildly arousing. That scared me, too. I tried to drive the feeling away. I tried to think of Avery, maybe of the fear I’d felt earlier; whatever it took to not seem like a pervert. I fidgeted my waist and legs, trying to adjust my shorts which were a bit tighter than a moment before.


That proved to be a wrong move – both the fidgeting and the focus on Avery.Simultaneously, Ms. Twilight opened her eyes, shooting me a glare, and whispered, “Fear.”