Make Like a Nun and Get Your Writing Habit On

What habit might that be, you ask?  Is it:

The habit of sitting down to write at the same time in the same location each and every day even though Spring is here and your hands would rather be digging in the dirt than pounding on the keys?

The habit of editing a draft over and over again until reading another sentence of your precious baby threatens to make red ink bleed from your eyes?

The habit of telling yourself to keep going even when all your friends are down at Wormy Pete's Mexican Dump swimming in margaritas?

The habit of turning off the Internet and the endless writing advice because there's really only one valuable piece of writing advice in the universe, which is:

Make like a nun and get your writing habit on.  

Meaning be nun-like in your approach to writing.  

How's that, you ask? 

Like a nun, we must be singly devoted to one purpose: our writing.  This is obviously easier said than done what with full time jobs, families, houses to clean and dogs to walk.  With illness and taxes and floods and eighteen dollar a gallon gasoline.  And Jersey Shore on the television.  

Yet, when I think of how nuns devote themselves to a lifetime of developing and strengthening their personal relationship with God, it reminds me of the intimate commitment required of writers.    

And faith.  There's a whole lot of faith involved with writing: in yourself, in your work, in your readers even when you don't have a one.  Faith in things to come even when the "to come" keeps taking long and longer to arrive.

Maintaining that faith day in and day out, year after year can be the difficult part, even as your writing develops and your confidence as a writer grows.  Just as the the nature of the world must make maintaining faith difficult for even the most devoted nuns, writers too may suffer a crisis of faith.

Ever changing markets and technology and trends and fads conspire to befuddle and mislead writers down a terrible rabbit hole of doubt and confusion.

In those dark days, when rejection and uncertainty be thy middle name, fear not the unknown and take comfort in the one thing that has sustained you time and time again: the writing.  

Then go into that solitary, nunnery of a writer's space, close the door and open the computer.  Bow your head, place your hands on the keys and get your habit on.

   

The Roaming Mortician On the Run

Here's the beginning of a short piece I will be publishing soon.  It is basically an intro for my book Rooted.  As always, feedback always encouraged and appreciated. 
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The Roaming Mortician on the Run
“You ain’t got to tell me anything. I know all about the Roaming Mortician coming to Moonsock and raising Cain. Shoot, I was on Eleanor McQuiston’s porch shelling peas when he come rip roaring up the drive, hell bent on ploughing right through us in that battered old Mercury.

At the time, we’d never heard tell of the Roaming Mortician. Had no idea he was some musician from up in New York City. Never even heard of his kind of music. Punk he called it. Punk was the right word for him, too.

His real name was Slade Mortimer and I’m here to tell you that fool had a true talent for shaking things up. Ain’t never seen so many skeleton’s come stumbling out of a closet at once. Skeleton’s that hadn’t seen the light of day in a quarter of a century.

Slade come running into town in an old Mercury Montclair he’d stolen. Of course, that ain’t all the boy stole. He lifted every bit of gas and whiskey and pills and God knows what else he abused his body with.  Everything he came to town with was stolen; even his skinny leather britches.

Only thing I figure he didn’t steal was food. That’s because the boy didn’t eat. That sorry bag of bones was pretty much already dead by the time he reached Eleanor. Seemed like all he had left to do was lie down and let his worn out body rest in the good Lord’s eternal light.

It was all that running that wore him out. Come down from New York City like a bat out of hell, running from himself and everyone and everything he ever knew. How could he have known he’d run out of running when he hit Moonsock? How could the poor boy know what was waiting for him down McQuiston Lane?

Him not knowing was probably for the best. Had he known, he would have never pulled into Gus’ gas station, never stopped for directions on the square.

But that is what the boy did. And Lord love him, wasn’t anyone or anything the same after that.

Don’t take my word for it, though. Myrna Sue will tell you all about it. So will Verdie and Arliss. They were the first to encounter the Roaming Mortician.  Even if they didn't know who or what he was.”

********

Well, what did you think?  Leave a comment and let me know. 

Click here to read more ROOTED posts.

Keeping it Real in a Writing World of Fantasy, Vampires and Steampunk

Twitter is great. I’ve learned so much about so many things from so many people. Ever changing trends, topics and discussions and have opened my eyes to worlds of information I’d never given much thought to.

After years of writing locked away in a private office, I jumped on the Twitter wagon two years ago and was immediately shocked and humbled by the astronomical number of writers trying to break through, just as I was.

Never before had I been exposed to so much hot off the press fiction. It was like having my finger on the pulse of the literary community. Twitter enables me to be part of the greater literary discussion, to voice my opinion on character development or ask formatting questions and get an immediate response.

All this from my private office where I’d worked for years, head down and fingers flying, oblivious to anything and everything that was not making its way into my manuscript.

But all that has changed. Now, it is not so easy to have tunnel vision. Every time I’m on Twitter, I get an eyeful of what my fellow writers are working on or have published.

Turns out, there’s a whole lot of fantasy writing a’going on. In fact, a buttload.

I’ve been introduced to an endless variety of vamps and werewolves and other worldly beings all living out God knows what kinds of lives in the literary universe. These fantastical beings have day jobs and lovers and join the PTA. They go grocery shopping, curse and spit and have explosive gas, for all I know.

Then there’s this whole thing called Steampunk which I had been woefully unaware of. A veritable hodgepodge of science fiction, fantasy, alternate history, and speculative fiction that came into prominence during the 1980s and early 1990s (thanks Wikipedia).

Coming out of my private office and into the Twitterverse, I have been truly astounded at the creativity and ground breaking work being developed.

This has caused me to look at my own body of writing from a different perspective. How do my novels and stories fit in this fantastical literary menagerie? How creative have I been in my world creation and character development? How much glitter did I employ?

From this fresh vantage point, I’ve realized my work is mired in realism. My characters do not have any supernatural abilities. They do live in the underworld, heaven, space, or other dimensions. They do not crossbreed with other fictional species. They do not have immortal battles.

Does this mean my characters and their struggles are any less formidable than those found in Fantasy or Steampunk? Does this mean their battles are not as grand or sensational?

The answer to these questions is NO. If anything, their battles may be more significant due to their realism.

My characters greatest battles are fought within themselves. They need saving, and saving bad. Laid flat by life and events beyond their control, or brought to their knees by their own whiskey bent and hell bound natures, my characters can’t take another step forward. Can’t stand on their two feet and face another day. Can’t turn to another living soul for help, because they haven’t just burned their bridges, they demolished them in a raging fury.

Demons and monsters are battled in my writing. But these are the ones within my characters, the one within all of us. Finding the strength and courage and will to face what is inside is about as fantastical as my stories get.

Ultimately, the fight for salvation is the greatest battle my characters fight. It is this battle to save oneself that always surfaces in my writing.

Sounds pretty boring next to all those vampires and werewolves and wizards and steampunks.

And yet, I find the internal life is as dark and deceptive and dangerous as any fantasy world. Maybe more so, because it is real.

Giving Birth: Dreaming a Writer’s Journey

I don’t know about you, but when I am writing I seem to have dreams that directly relate to my work. But not in a way I would have expected. I would expect to dream about the content of my novels, but this is not how it works.

For example:
When I was writing about detectives in Wanted: The Roaming Mortician seems like my dreams would have taken on a judicial slant: mobsters and drag queens and morticians. But this did not happen.

When I wrote Operation Tub-butt, seems like my dreams would have been filled with revenge seeking middle-schoolers and cheerleaders. But this did not happen either.

When I wrote Cursed! My Devastatingly Brilliant Campaign to Save the Chigg, seems like I'd be dreaming about zombies and curses and stump toed soothsayers and pickles.  But no.



When I wrote about mud and guns and jeep chases and funerals in Rooted, seems like I would have dreamed about all of that. But no, again.

What I dream:
With the development of all my novels, I dream about babies: fresh in the womb, baking up good like a loaf of bread, and ultimately, their delivery.

When starting a new novel, I invariably dream that I have just learned I am with child. I’m not visibly pregnant, but a few weeks along.

As I progress through my rough draft, my pregnancy progresses as well in my dreams. After the initial pregnancy dream, there will be a dream where I’m five or six months pregnant, and then another dream of being full term. Finally, I deliver a healthy happy child. This occurs right after I finish my rough draft.

Only, with Rooted, I dreamed I delivered twins on a beach. Which obviously means the book is doubly good.

Lately, I’ve had a different set of dreams which relates directly to a side project I’ve started. I’m currently revising some old content I have lying about. Content which I feel may influence the literary world for generations to come. Not necessarily in a good way.

The dreams have to do with three novellas I am creating based on content which did not make it into my books. After starting these short projects, I have dreamed of returning to an old business I had and starting it over. But in my dream, my plan is to start the business on a smaller scale, with fewer clients to make it more manageable.

The next dream I had involved four or five small sailboats which were abandoned in a lake. The boats were upside down in the water. Once I righted the boats, I discovered they were in very good condition. In the dream I reclaimed these small boats.

These dreams center on reclaiming small things WHICH IS EXACTLY WHAT I’M DOING WITH THESE NOVELLAS.

Spooky, I know. But I’ve come to consider these dreams nice little perks of my writing process. I welcome these dream babies, partly for the encouragement they provide, but mostly because they don’t need diapers.

No, I Will Not Wish You Good Luck Writing

Why? Because you and every of other lucky son of a biscuit eater are potential literary competition. Why would I want you to write a book better than mine? Why would I wish you luck finding an agent, or landing a big fat publishing contract? Let’s be honest, if you were lucky enough to land an interview on NPR, I’d probably choke on my tongue. From envy.

Well, not really.

In truth, after writing a gajillion words and pages over the last nine thousand years, I have learned luck has very little to do with being a successful writer. Luck will not improve your storytelling or editing stills. Luck will not induce anyone to read your work. Luck will not keep you motivated day after day, month after month, year after year. Okay, decade after decade (now I’m depressing myself).

No, I will not wish you good luck writing. But I do wish you the same things I wish for myself:

• Faith
• Patience
• Perseverance
• Slicer dicer editing skills
• Fearless writing
• Dedication
• Ability to overcome obstacles
• A clear vision, humble heart, open mind and critical eye
• Unshakable confidence

Most of all, I wish you success, in whatever form that may take. So keep on truckin’ my literary friends. For one day, you probably WILL be interviewed on NPR. And when that happens, just know I will be choking on my tongue. From joy.

Brevity: Need I Say More, Writers?

Apparently, I love the sound of my own voice. Same goes for my writing: I love to read my own words. What can I say? There are times I think I’m the greatest thing since sliced bread.

And when I get on a roll, Faulkner ain’t got nothing on me. I can easily make one thought, one sentence fill three pages… front and back.

For readers, it is pure agony. You might as well ask them to sit in a chair and read all that piled up nonsense with a metal tray of hot coals in their laps. It’s that enjoyable.

I’ve been thinking a lot about storytelling and how it relates to writing a novel. I say novel because that is truly my favorite form. I had written three novels before sitting down to write my first short story. In writing the short story, I felt constricted and longed for elbow room to develop my story and characters.

After completing a few more stories, I began to appreciate the challenge of getting the “story” across in thirty pages, instead of three hundred. The tightness of a thirty page story provides a powerful impact not as easily attained or sustained in a novel.

As I’m in the development stages of my first new book in gabillion years, I find myself hesitant to follow the same process as previously taken with my other novels. As the story takes shape, I’m conscious of the short, powerful punch I want to make. I want this book to hit the reader in the gut, to stun and astound. And maybe induce vomiting.

Sounds like a compacted story is the way to go. Only, it may not be so simple whittling the four hundred pages of story in my head down to two hundred and fifty pages.

And yet, I think of conversation I had once with a professional songwriter from Nashville. After twenty years writing songs for some of the top country stars he was taking a shot at screenwriting. He was interested in the chance to tell a story in a format longer than a three and a half minute song. He wanted more elbow room.

But the more I think about story, and structure, and emotional impact, I can think of no other storytelling format that has the impact a well written song has.

What four hundred page book could add anything to the song, Ode to Billy Joe? Do any of Bob Dylan’s songs need additional material to impart the tone, setting, and plot intended? Who hasn’t heard Eleanor Rigby and not felt what it was like to be her?

I believe when I was a less experienced writer, I felt I had to get everything into a manuscript; every word, thought, and feeling. But now, I’m at a point where I’m interested in what does not make it into the manuscript. I’m seeing the beauty in less is more. And I think I like it.

Writing is a solitary expedition that starts at one point and ends in a place completely unimaginable. As I dive deeper into this latest book, I believe my expedition is taking me away from the familiar path I’ve worn thin over the years. Now into my fourth novel, I am heading into a jungle of gnarled trees and twisted roots that must be hacked and hacked and hacked to proceed.

And I am most excited.

As much as I’d like to go into more detail, I think I’ll keep it brief and get my machete out. Let the hacking begin.

I Don't Normally Pimp Myself Out

I’m sure you won’t expect this from me at all, because I certainly never, ever do this type of thing. But I am in dire need of reviews for my short story collection, Headshots, and I have reason to believe you may have read this fascinating literary fiasco sometime in the past. If you haven’t read it, then please disregard this once in a lifetime invitation.

I wouldn’t normally pimp myself out so flagrantly but my agent instructed me to do this – at gunpoint.

Would you mind clicking the following Amazon link and leaving a review. Be honest in your review, if you just want to give it some stars that is fine, too.  Anything you can do is greatly appreciated.

http://www.amazon.com/Headshots-ebook/dp/B006PTQ0ZY

Would it be too much to ask you click the Barnes and Noble link below and leave a review as well? If you do mind, please remember, I know where you live. Well, not really. But I can find out. Then maybe we can have lunch sometime. Wouldn’t that be nice?

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/headshots-idabel-allen/1021375231

If you just can’t stop yourself from leaving Headshots reviews, there’s like a gajillion other places online to leave reviews. Just look up Headshots in Google and knock yourself out. But I be pleased as peaches with just reviews on the above sites.

And if I haven’t said thank you, I’ll say it now. Thank You. You are a credit to the human race and a much better person than those who choose not to leave a review. Actually, I don’t know if that’s true or not. But I sincerely appreciate your assistance.

Idabel

Dear Published Authors: Stop Stealing My Unpublished Writing, It’s Getting on My Nerves

This one time at writing camp, I wrote short story about undead beings that glitter in sunlight and the next thing you know a little book called Twilight is published chocked full of GLITTERY UNDEAD VAMPIRES.

Okay, so I never wrote about glittery vampires and Stephanie Myers did not steal from my unpublished writing. And say what you will about Twilight, it wasn’t too bad (for a third grade primer).

But I have had instances where my characters show up in print or on television while I’m still in unpublished edit mode. And I’m getting pretty sick of it.

In my novel, Rooted, my villain was powerful, viscerally cruel, dark and cunning. I had every aspect of his character down: his accent, his hand made clothing. The way he moved like a bull in one scene and Fred Astaire in another. This man had any women he wanted, and he wanted all of them, often. He was an animal.

Thinking back on him, I miss him terribly. Of course, I can visit with him anytime I like. All I have to do is watch an episode of the Sopranos and there he be, the physical version of my solitary writings. Only, I wrote the durn character a couple of years before the Sopranos debuted. By the time I got around to watching the Sopranos, several years later, Rooted was pretty much solid. Only, my villain was now such a cliché he would never work in the story.

It was back to the drawing board. I changed my villain from a charismatic mob boss to a revenge seeking coal miner from West Virginia. I’m taking a gamble that HBO does not intend to develop a series about a coal miner with a mean streak and missing fingers. This, I hope, takes care of any future infringements on what I have already written in my unpublished novel, Rooted.

Two weeks ago I listened to the audio version of The Help, only to discover that one of my main characters currently in development has a name very similar to one of the main characters in The Help. And like the character in “The Help”, my character is a black female in Mississippi.

How in the world did The Help’s author know I am currently developing the most tragic literary figure of all time with a name very similar to Abeline, one of the main characters in The Help? My character is a black child in Mississippi, but her timeframe goes back to the 1880s. Her speech is so similar to Abeline’s from The Help, that I can’t get Abeline out of my head.

It’s like I’m now writing the child version of Abeline from The Help. Which makes me wonder, how did Kathryn Stockett know that one day I would develop a character so similar to her published Abeline? And how dare she write Abeline knowing I would be writing a similar character so soon after the publication of The Help?

To be plagiarized prior to anyone reading my work is quite unnerving. To be plagiarized before I even write anything is downright spooky.

So I beg all you hotshot published authors, have pity on this struggling writer. Please do not beat me to the punch. Leave me a few crumbs of my own writing to be sprung on the unsuspecting masses like a tiger from a bush.

For if you do, there will be a special place in heaven for you. And 36 virgins. I promise.

Winter: The Official Writing Season

When the air dips into sub-zero temperatures, there’s only one sure way to save those fingertips from frostbite and your head from brain freeze and that is WRITING THE NEXT GREAT AMERICAN NOVEL.

So what are you waiting for? Go lock yourself in a room and get to writing! Success may be just days, months, okay, years away.

So fire up the computer and let the words flow. Don’t let anything stop you from pounding away on your masterpiece.

But first:

• Chop a bit of wood and get a nice roaring fire going so that when you come out of your writing room, exhausted and depleted, you’ll be greeted by a warm fiery breath.

• Once the logs are crackling nicely in your fireplace, please take a second to make yourself a cup of homemade hot chocolate. Don’t waste your time on bland hot chocolate mix, but treat yourself to real chocolaty goodness. Don’t have the cocoa on hand? Best run to the store and stock up. Again, you want everything just right when you step into your writing retreat.

• With that steaming cup of cocoa in hand you might be tempted to take it with you to your office. But please, I beg you, take a moment to sit by a window and watch the soft white flakes float effortlessly down. Let you mind wander. Relax. If needed, doze a little. Again, you want to be fresh and ready for the writing storm that is about to commence.

• When you take your empty cup to the kitchen and are confronted with the mountainous stack of dishes you’ve been ignoring for the past twelve hours, don’t fret. Even though your mind is overflowing with the tenderest text ever imagined, you know deep in your heart of hearts you will not be able to concentrate on plot and character and narrative when you’ve got lasagna petrifying on your dinnerware. Go ahead and knock the dishes out. You’ll feel much better.

• Now that the dishes are washed, and the refrigerator cleaned out (because really, how long has that science experiment been going on), everything has been taken care of to really allow your mind to settle into the most poetic prose the world has yet to see. Or will be, once you call your insurance agent and inquire into possible rates for the two seater convertible you expect to purchase once your book is a mega bestseller.

• Finally, in your author’s chamber, you settle in for a long winter’s day of writing, luxuriating in the knowledge that it is just you and your characters. Thrilling a little with the expectation of all the unknowns you are about to unveil to yourself and the world in general, after you check Twitter, Facebook, Goodreads, Amazon, the weather forecast, and find a dessert recipe that calls for cocoa.

• With all this settled and done, the curser placed at the beginning of the first word of the day, your eye catches on the clock and you curse desperately.

Time to pick the kids up from school.

Is it True That Slade Pooped on Glass Tables?

If You Search For My Website With: “Is it True That Slade Pooped on Glass Tables”…


Apparently and unfortunately, you will get my website. But I do not understand how. Sure, I’m glad it gets you to my site, but really, how embarrassing to search for me with such an unflattering question.

First off, my character Slade is a washed up drugged out punk rocker, prone to violent outbursts and the most offensive behavior. But he certainly has not pooped on a glass table. I’m not ruling out other types of tables, rugs, socks or small furry animals. But I assure you, he’s not defiled a glass table. At least, not yet.

Secondly, if anyone were to associate the word “poop” which one of my characters at least get the character correct. When I think of my writing (which I assure you if of the highest caliber) and poop, I think of Chigger “FreckleFart” Larson who was caught praying on the pooper.

Quite scandalous, I know. In Chigg’s defense, the bathroom stall was the only place she could find for such a private moment. The praying, I mean.

As a writer, I’d like to think that readers could find my website by searching for any of the following:

• “Greatest writer on the face of the earth.”

• “Winner of every Nobel Prize for Literature for the next eighty years.”

• Or simply, “She who’s name cannot be spoken.”

As a realist, I’m pretty certain the last selection would not direct people to my website. But as my literary career progresses, I’m fairly confident readers will be able to find my site using the first two selections.

But until then, I guess just search for me with, “Is it True That Slade Pooped on Glass Tables”…

You’ll get me every time.

A Bunch of Dead People on the Prowl

My new novel, Incinerate, is one dark read. In fact, I do not foresee one amusing word or anecdote finding its way to the page in this bad boy.

What can I say? It’s a book about a bunch of dead people on the prowl. It’s not a vampire book, or a ghost book. There aren’t any zombies save for one zombie voodoo child with aspirations beyond her years.

The setting of this morbid tale is post civil war Mississippi. A place and time where things were pretty bad for a lot of people. But for the residents of a utopian black planting community, life was difficult but rewarding.

UNTIL the price of cotton hits rock bottom, and the Mississippi river changes course, and flood and pestilence all combine to threaten the survival of this utopian community which had outlasted slavery, war and reconstruction.

Unwilling to give up the land they’d fought and struggled to make their own, the community desperately turns to Doc Creole, a New Orleans voodoo priest known for his powers over heaven and earth.

And that’s when things really get bad.   More to come as things develop.

As always, thanks for your continued support.

Methinks I’m going to need it on this one.

From My Folder Titled: Vampire Crap

I completely forgot about this.  My attempt at total pulp fiction.  I guess I've decided not to pursue this, so I don't mind telling you the main character wakes with her face planted in a pizza box full of pizza.

And now, my gift to you:

VAMPIRE CRAP

When the door closed, Harley Hendrix stood dizzily for a moment, as if the earth had shifted in some noticeable way beneath her. Then she realized she wasn’t breathing. She wasn’t breathing, but stood, holding her breath, waiting, expectant for Bill to swing the door open and sweep her off her feet. She was waiting for what she had waited for her entire life. A door to open, a man to enter and her real life to begin, finally at 39.


The door did not open.

Instead, she turned the radio on, fifties rock and roll her mama used to play on Sunday mornings as she burnt the breakfast sausage. Harley did the ‘mash potato’ into the kitchen and retrieved the frozen bucket of premixed margaritas from the freezer; her emergency ‘stash’. She left it on the counter to thaw as she pulled the pan of fresh turtle brownies from the oven. She pushed her finger into the center of the brownies and then quickly removed it. Done!

While the mix melted and the brownies cooled Harley kept busy. Too busy to think about how much fun she’d had with Bill over the past four months. Too busy to think about the life she had already imagined and planned with Bill: the small house in the country, matching quarter horses and a couple of goats, some barn cats. Harley hadn’t imagined a small child, she wanted to see how the goats worked out first.

But now she was thinking of the goats, thinking of Bill saddling the horses and a surge of panic well inside her. She’d ruined it with Bill. She didn’t know how but he was gone now. Moving in with some woman, or skank ho’, he’d met online two weeks ago. Talking marriage, as if seeking Harley’s advice on how to proceed. As if Harley had any experience with that!

“This calls for an exceptionally large, overloaded, everything and your brother pizza,” she determined in a quiet, fierce voice to Pepe, her quiet, fierce schnauzer. Pepe barely paid Harley any attention, having been through this routine many times before.

After ordering her pizza, Harley’s eyes landed on a picture of her and Bill at their favorite Italian restaurant called ‘Noodles’. The waiter had taken their picture. Bill hadn’t wanted to recreate the famous scene from Lady and Tramp, the two dogs sharing the same long noodle until their lips touched. Bill had thought it was stupid, embarrassing. But when he saw how much it meant to her, saw the tears glistening in her eyes he had complied with her wishes.

Only, as Harley looked at the image with the lens of love so ruthlessly stripped from her eyes, she realized the grin on Bill’s face was actually more an angry grimace, a really, really, really angry grimace. How had she not noticed that before? His eyes, those deep grey pools of warmth and understanding seemed to hold daggers pointed at her idiotic smiling face. It was there, in the picture, the truth that they would never be together, never enter into marital union. Never own goats.

But Harley did not despair, not yet. Despair would come in a little over five months, when she turned forty, if nothing happened soon. And it had to happen soon.

Until something happened, Harley slipped a dvd into the player, determined to not dwell on the wasted evening. There was no chance Bill would re-enter her mind tonight, not after a billionth showing of Interview with a Vampire. And a couple of margaritas. And a pan of brownies. And a medium pizza, the works.

Harley was well into her second margarita, dancing to ‘Jumping Jack Flash’ and slicing a lime when the doorbell rang. One thought blazed through her heart, her mind and her soul: Bill! In her excitement Harley sliced into the lime too forcefully, cutting deep into the meat of her thumb.

“Ow, ow, ow, owie,” she muttered as blood ran freely down her arm onto the cutting board, discoloring the limes. Then it hit her, Bill wasn’t at the door.

“Idiot, its only the stupid pizza,” she said as she grabbed a paper towel and pressed it to her thumb. But it did little good. By the time she opened the door to the hippie pizza guy, the paper towel and her entire arm was a bloody mess.

She said, “Hey, hold on,” as she fumbled around in her jean pockets for money.

“Dude,” the pizza guy said, his shining eyes glued to her injury.

“Oh, its nothing,” she said with a laugh, “nothing a little tequila can’t cure. Lime injury, happens all the…”

The words died on Harley’s lips as the pizza guy pushed the pizza box and himself forward into her living room.

“Hey, well okay, come on in,” Harley said, startled by the intrusion.

The pizza guy was now inside the house. He looked quickly over his shoulder through the doorway and then shut the door behind him.

“All I have is twenty, just, uhm, just keep the change. That’s fine.” She held the bill towards the pizza guy and placed her hand on the pizza box. But he did not take the bill.

“Just keep the change,” she pulled the pizza from his hand, “and I’ll keep the pizza. That’s generally how it works.” She was about to add, “crazy pizza guy?” beneath her breath when he pulled his lips back, reminding her of a snarling coyote she’d seen once as a child on Little House on the Prairie.

He was now crazy pizza snarling coyote, with a little spittle running down the side of his open mouth. Which, by the way, revealed a set of very long incisors, long and pointed. They weren’t particularly clean teeth, not bright white and shiny and why should they be? He was a pizza delivery guy, his dental insurance had to be pretty crappy.

Harley said, “You need to leave now. I have…” she reached into her purse on the coffee table quickly and pulled out a can of deodorant. “Mace, this is deadly, blind your ass mace, Mister, and if you don’t leave now, I’ll spray it right in your eyes and in your mouth.” She found herself wondering if the deodorant might help with the coyote’s putrid breath, if somehow she would be doing him a great service right before he… he what, she wondered.

Then she knew.

He intended to eat her.

Birthday Regards to a Butthead and Writer of Books

Butthead. Not such a nice word. Not the kind of thing you want to be called.


And yet I was called it, on my birthday when I was feeling kind of low, feeling old and worn out and used up. Feeling about as middle aged as a great hunking chunk of cheese that’s turned a bit moldy.

Yet when I saw the Facebook post, “Happy birthday, Butthead,” I smiled. Not only that, I giggled in a most juvenile way, causing my tense muscles and gritted teeth to relax for the first time in a very long while.

Being called “butthead” by a high school friend I haven’t seen in twenty years made me feel more myself than I’d felt in a long time. It reminded me of a time when I did not take things so seriously.

In my heyday I was known as a butthead, a goofball, a veritable pain in the “you know what”.

In truth, I was a lot of fun.

Twenty plus years later I’m a lot of things, but fun isn’t at the top of the list. Not like it once was. Not like I’d like it to be.

I miss laughing so hard my sides hurt. I miss the sheer luxury of being silly and confident and hopeful all at once. I miss not worrying about the future; where I’ll be and what I’ll be doing.

As a child I possessed an unshakable certitude that I would grow to be a writer of books. It was all I needed to know about the future. I’d write the best books ever written, be rich and famous, and a frequent guest on the David Letterman show.

This was my child’s idea of being a writer.

I’ve since learned what being a writer means: years spent crafting a vision only you know or see or believe in, years laboring unceremoniously under the blasphemous delusion that your story might actually be of value to the world.

Straining and striving and writing and rewriting only to rewrite some more. Pushing and pushing even when my confidence wanes, even when my efforts begin to seem foolhardy.

Coming up for air for brief periods to look around and wonder what being a writer has cost me as a wife, a mother, a friend? As a person?

Wondering if I am still myself.

Now, thanks to my friend’s birthday message, I can answer this question without any doubt. Even if I’m not as much fun as I used to be, I haven’t veered too far off course.

I am a butthead and a writer of books.

And all is well with the world.

Introducing the Duanes and The Dead Cow Winch

Excerpt from my book ROOTED:

Grover McQuiston stood on the front porch pleased with the clear sky and early morning sun. The day would be full of preparation and he expected the weather to do its part to assist.

Bug Patter was around back unloading the chairs for the viewing. The casket would be arriving shortly. The boy had done a decent job with Eleanor, proving all the more that he was Matthew’s son.

But he didn’t want to think about Matthew, or of Slade’s mother. The two were as dead and buried in his mind and heart as his wife soon would be.

Grover’s thoughts were interrupted by the familiar and unwelcome sound of a truck racing up the drive. The low grumble of dual exhausts and the unmistakably loud music of Bocephus invaded and conquered the morning silence. The black Ford was a beast with blackened windows, thirty three inch tires and four inch lift. The truck whipped into the yard and through the grass until Grover was certain it would climb right over Lucy. But the truck stopped short and the occupants emerged.

Grover said, “The Duanes,” then pressed his lips together tightly, his eyes narrowed.

Myrna’s husband, Duane, and son, Duane Jr., were unaware of their audience as they helped themselves to beer from the cooler in the back of the truck. Can in hand, they drank while Hank Jr.’s voice sang,

If I get stoned and sing all night long

It’s a family tradition…

The Duanes guzzled and then tossed the empty, crushed beer cans into the back of the truck. Additional beer was immediately retrieved from the cooler. The cans made an audible popping sound as the tabs were pulled.

Grover stepped to the railing and shouted, “Turn that music off!”

The Duanes had not been keeping an eye out for Grover, and were surprised to discover him on the porch. Fumbling, they quickly tossed their cans into the truck-bed.

“Junior, turn that music off!” The music stopped midway through Grover’s yelling, leaving Grover’s angry voice alone in the early morning.

Stepping off the porch, Grover marched over to Duane. “What do you think you’re doing showing up here making all that racket?” Duane and Junior lowered their heads as Grover continued. “In case you haven’t heard, Miss Eleanor has passed.”

Duane glanced up at Grover. “Oh no, Myrna told us about Miss Eleanor yesterday.”

“Of course she did, you idiot,” Grover exploded. “Eleanor was her mother.”

The Duanes mumbled, “Yes, sir.”

“Alright, then. I’ve got a job for you two. You bring those shovels like I said?”

Duane nodded proudly and pointed to the back of the truck. “Got two in the back.” Grover looked into the back of the truck and saw the shovels, and the crushed beers cans.

Leaning into Duane’s beefy face, Grover studied him through narrowed, suspicious eyes. “You been drinking?” Duane looked down at his shoes and shook his head emphatically. “No, sir.” Despite Duane’s denial, Grover continued to glare.

“You’re lying.”

Junior fidgeted uneasily as he waited for Grover to get to him, which he immediately did. “And you, you’re as drunk and as useless as your father.”

Junior nodded his head in agreement. “Yes, sir.”

Grover stepped back and looked around for a second. His hard eyes fell on Lucy. “You got a chain?”

Junior saw that Grover was looking at Lucy and he brightened up. “Got a chain, and this here winch.” He ran around to the front of the truck to show off his wench. “We gonna pull her? Huh?” Excitement filled his muscular body.

Grover studied Junior suspiciously and then grudgingly inspected the winch’s cable.

“It’s a nine thousand pounder,” Junior offered proudly. “Pull anything you got, including that dead cow.”

Grover glared at Junior. Duane hurried forward to run interference for his one and only son. “What you need us to do, Grover? We’re here to help.”

Grover looked down disapprovingly at Duane’s bloated beer belly. “Looks like you’ve already helped yourself to plenty.” Duane lowered his head in shame.

Grover placed his hands on his hips, looked from the truck to Lucy, and then back to the truck. The Duanes stood out of the way, eager for Grover to finish with them.

“You say this winch will pull her?”

Duane nodded as Junior said, “Yes sir.”

Grover thought for another second. “And it won’t hurt her?”

Duane and Junior shook their heads and said, “No, sir,” in unison.

Grover appeared to have a hard time accepting this as fact. He put his hand on the winch and tugged at the cable. Finally, he said, “All right. First off, I want you two to pull Miss Lucy back behind the barn. I was supposed to have a front-end loader out here the past two days, but it hasn’t come. You’ll bury her back there behind the barn.”

Junior’s eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. “I been wantin’ to try that winch out!”

Grover’s stern look stripped all joy from Junior. “This is not fun and games, boy. Show some respect.” Junior lowered his head and apologized once again, but Grover could still sense his excitement. “And there better not be any mishaps. Do I make myself clear?” The Duanes nodded.

“When you finish,” Grover continued, “you two can start on Miss Eleanor’s grave.”

With that, the Duanes jaws dropped. Any excitement they may have felt quickly evaporated. They stole a glance at each other, each as horrified as the other.

Duane said, “I ain’t never dug no grave before.”

“Well, it’s not rocket science. You dig down six feet deep, and go maybe four or five feet wide. That’ll be plenty for the casket.”

“B…b…but…,” Duane stuttered nervously. He looked to Junior for some backup, but Junior had tangled enough with Grover for one day.

“B…b…but nothing,” Grover answered. “Let me know when you get Lucy buried around the barn. I’ll take you out to the family cemetery and show you where I want the grave. Now get going, we don’t have all day. There’s going to be a lot of people here this afternoon, and I don’t want Lucy lying in the yard.”

The Duanes said, “Yes sir.”

******
Click here to read more excerpts from Rooted

Help Wanted: Input On The Best Jacket Copy You've Never Read

Okay, you know the routine.  I've revamped my jacket copy for my YA book.  Please read and let me know how this could possibly get any better. 

Jacket copy for Cursed! My Devastatingly Brilliant Campaign to Save the Chigg

Eighth grade was to be the greatest year ever for Ginny Edgars, creative genius and future award winning zombie screenwriter. But after Ginny and her gang land in the principal’s office, AGAIN, her friends are forbidden to associate with her.

Friendless and left to her own devices by her career obsessed parents, Ginny determines to befriend Chigg Larson, the class freakazoid. But Chigg is too scared to have anything to do with Ginny or anyone else since her father’s death.

Everyone in Locust Fork believes Chigg is the bearer of a family curse and responsible for her father’s tragic death. Chigg kind of believes it, too. It’s the only way she can explain why her mother’s warm love has turned ice cold.

Desperate to regain her mother’s love, Chigg turns to Ginny to help her uncover the truth about the curse, her family and herself. With the help of an ancient soothsayer, the girls embark on a quest that leads them to the curse’s origin and to Della, Chigg’s great grandmother, rumored to have gone crazy after drowning her daughter.

The girls quickly learn nothing is as it seem. The discovery of Della’s diary convinces Chigg she bears the curse, sparking a devastating course of self-destruction that leaves Chigger fighting for her life.

Relying on her foxy cleverness and a few zombie combatant moves, Ginny risks everything to save her friend from Della’s fate, all while writing the greatest movie ever, Space Zombies in Love.

Please let me know if this works for a jacket copy.  You attention is greatly appreciated.
 
If this tempting morsal of text has you dying for more... please click here to download the first three chapters of the book for free.

Dying With My Boots On: Writing the Unbearable

My baby boy, Sean, is 18.  He has sandy hair, tanned skin and is a bit of a smart mouth.  Nothing gets past him at short stop or anywhere else.  He's looking forward to prom and graduation and a is bit overwhelmed by all of the changes that are about to take place.

Well, not really.  Sean never made it past April 12th, 1993.

If the above were fiction, I could tell you the why's and how's and what for's. I could give a very thorough account of the day, minutes, even seconds leading up to Sean's last breath. If it were fiction, I could tell you how he looked and smelled the day before, what he'd had to eat and how he rested.

But its not fiction, therefore the above is all I can write. In truth, I don't have to write anything except I am being told that the stories I should tell are my own, not made up fiction.

As much as I want to deny it, the writer in me knows what I am being told is true. I even dream it.

Only, I'd rather chug a gallon of sulphuric acid than write my own stories. But something is pulling me away from fiction, turning my eye inward.  And in turning inward I lose control of what goes on the paper, and more importantly, I lose control of what I allow others to see in me. 

For the most part, I can make most of my stories are pretty dang funny when I tell them. But when I put them to paper, it seems the funny slides right off the top and the not so funny is sitting there, a massive gangrenous wound, festering.

I don't want festering gangrene, I want the funny stuff.  And I want you to only see the funny; its my schtick.

Take away the funny and what is there?  There's pain and loss and grief and guilt and a thousand other not so nice things.

Take away the funny and there's just me.  Everyone seeing me.  And I don't like that too much, never have. 

Example: Recently, I purchased an unstinkingbelievably cool pair of cowboy boots in Austin.  I love these boots, they're distinctive and artful and they make a statement.  I cook in the boots, talk lovingly to them while watching television, brag them up to everyone within earshot.  The one thing I won't do is wear them to work.  The reason?  I don't want anyone staring at my feet or asking me questions about my kickass boots.

Stupid I know, but that's me.
  
So here I am, writing this post on this anniversary day, not wanting to write it but feeling I have to write it.  Putting on my boots for you to stare at, so to speak.  Wondering where I'll have to go in these boots, dreading where I'll end up and what I'll see.  Dreading what I'll put on paper for you to read.

And it is killing me.  Literally killing me.

The Greatest Thing You've Ever Read In Your Entire Life: Yes, No, Maybe So?

Please read following and let me know if this is the greatest thing you've ever read in your entire life and makes you absolutely, drop dead have to read the book right this minute!

NOTE: If its not the greatest thing you've ever read, please be kind enough to tell me why and what needs to change.  I fear I suck at this.

Rooted jacket copy:

In the late 1970’s, West Tennessee is a sea of white cotton, a land of “Yes Ma’ams” and “No Sirs” populated by good God fearing people who are mostly unaware of the mohawked, nose pierced, in your face, raw anarchy gripping New York City by the throat. But all of that is about to change.


Washed up and drugged out, punk's poster-boy, Slade Mortimer, is on his last leg. On the run from his dead girlfriend’s revenge seeking father, Slade heads south desperately seeking an inheritance and a chance at a new life.

What Slade finds is the blood kin he never knew he needed or wanted, the powerful yet fractured McQuistons who hold the keys to Slade’s past and his future.

With secrets and roots both deep and dark, the McQuistons bind Slade to a terrible task, one he’s spent his entire life running from. But in those flat, delta fields Slade discovers he can no longer escape what he has become, just as the McQuistons can no longer hide the truth about the sudden disappearance of Slade’s young mother years before.

Only when the powerful roots that ground and sustain families take hold and the guilt and loss of the past is accounted for can Slade and the McQuistons begin to forgive themselves. Only then can they begin to heal.

*******

Again, you are required to leave a comment and let me know exactly how great or how much this copy sucks.  My future as a writer depends on your input.  Don't leave a sista' hanging.

Thanks,

Idabel

Worrying Instead of Writing: A Lesson from Cheech and Chong

So I'm not a pot smoker. Never shot heroin. Haven't ever chased Alice down the rabbit hole on LSD.

I've been too busy doing everything I was supposed to do. Doing all the things nice responsible people feel is their duty.

Only to realize duty and responsibility and doing the right thing doesn't always amount to much.

In fact, after a while being dutiful and responsible and all Stepford Wivesish kind of sucks a sickly child’s buttocks.

There I said it.

So when I watch an old Cheech and Chong movie, I'm suddenly and completely envious of all their HIGH-spirited adventures. I mean, these guys haven't a care in the world except for where their next hit comes from.

Just as I too wonder where my next hit will come from.  My website? Or maybe my blog?  Maybe some new follower on Twitter or Facebook or wherever I happen to have myself plastered.

In fact, I think about my hits a lot.  Maybe too much.  As in checking my stats every eighth of a second, wondering, am I doing this right or doing enough?  Are my efforts effective? 

Looking for some sign or indication that I am on the right track.  

Worrying instead of writing. 

Then I hear Cheech say, "Hey, man, take a hit of this and everything will be fine..."

And suddenly I know what must be done.

I must be more stoner-like in my approach, as in let things grow naturally, even organically.  Take the edge off my thinking and my approach. 

I've got to chill, relax, kick back, become comfortably numb, and allow creativity to enter the space that has been too much occupied with doubt and uncertainty. 
 
I've got to let everything else go and turn to the work.  I've got to write and write and write and write and the rest will come, whatever that may be.
 
Thanks Cheech and Chong.  You guys are the best.

I'll Say It Again - Horseshit!

Geography Lesson excerpt from Headshots:


Cleveland finished his beer, produced a raw belch, and then motioned for the bartender to bring another. A thin haze of smoke spiraled upward from the cigarette in his hand like some lost soul seeking refuge in a darkened heaven. The neon Budweiser clock on the wall said it was almost three p.m. and the place was as dead as any other in that washed-up town. Pool tables and poker machines sat like neglected toys in the suffocating dimness as country music, old and familiar, mingled with the sounds of clinking glasses and the errant buzzing of flies. A few people with nothing better to do sat on bar stools and stared dumbly at the soundless television above the bar, reminding Cleveland how empty life was without form and purpose.


The man across from him, Kemper, said, “I done told you.” Kemper wore a dark blue work shirt that strained for closure over his impressive belly. Less than twenty years before he’d been one hell of a football player in high school, more freight train than linebacker. But all hints of athleticism had long since been lost to the deep-fried thickness that covered him like a dull costume. Even still, his heavy-jowled face could not conceal the fact that there was still a handsome man lurking beneath the added flesh and years.

Cleveland, stiff-backed and erect, put his elbows on the table, hunched his shoulders forward as was his habit and said, “Horseshit.”

Unlike his companion, Cleveland’s body wasn’t meaty, and his short sleeved shirt revealed long arms ropy with muscle. Average height and weight, he had once been described as rangy, kind of like a tough chicken, not scrawny, just rangy. He’d been this way as a boy and he was this way now at sixty-two. His buzz cut had turned a steel gray color but his eyes were still sharp and his ears caught everything. About the only thing that reminded him he was an old man were his charcoal colored lungs which the doctor swore were about ready to give out.

“I know what you said, I know it. But it ain’t true. Not one damn word of it.” Cleveland pulled a pack of cigarettes from the front pocket of his gray t-shirt. “You might be pretty good with a monkey wrench, but you’re one ignorant bastard.”

“Ah hell, why’d you want to say something like that?” Kemper scratched at his beer label and frowned. “I saw the map and everything. His route was marked in red, right down through Mexico and Honduras, through Central America all the way to Argentina and Chile and back. All on that old Kawasaki.”

“First off, that bike of his can’t go half a mile without crapping out. Secondly, Lem Pearson is just as broke as you and me, broker probably, and last of all the man ain’t never even been out of the state of Ohio.” Cleveland snorted and took a drink. “Kind of like you.”

Kemper shook his head and when he grinned two dimples appeared on both sides of his mouth. “Here it comes. World War II, Korea, Vietnam...”

“That’s right son. I hit the last year of World War II when I was just sixteen, lied about my age just so’s I wouldn’t miss it. And for the record I did two tours in ‘Nam.” Cleveland’s voice, which was usually abrupt and harsh, changed whenever he spoke of his military career. His words became more important, ringed with pride and respect, perhaps even a little awe at what he had accomplished.

“Hell, I served for thirty years. Ain’t nobody around here got shit on me. I been places you can’t even pronounce, seen things you ain’t even imagined, things that’d make your drawers turn turd-brown right now if I was to tell you.”

“But Lem said--”

“But Lem said,” Cleveland sneered. “If you knew anything at all you’d know that North America and South America ain’t even connected. It’s like him saying he rode his bike from California to Hawaii or from Florida to Cuba. There’s no way.”

Kemper lifted the ratty, grease-streaked ball cap from his head and scratched his shaggy brown hair. He thought for a moment and then crammed the cap back in place, causing the thick ends of his hair to stick out from his square head. “I don’t know, Cleveland. I think it’s all connected, North and South America. All of it.”

“I’ll say it again – Horseshit!” Cleveland slammed his fist on the weathered table causing the collection of empty beer bottles to jump.

Kemper pushed his shirt sleeves up his thick, hairy arms then crossed them over the top of his belly. “Just ‘cause you been in the military don’t mean you know everything. It don’t mean everyone else is a moron.”

Cleveland leaned closer, his eyes glinted. “Yeah? So tell me Einstein where did the Titanic go down?”

“The Titanic? What? You’re testing me now?” Kemper sighed heavily and rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding Cleveland’s intense glare. Kemper looked like a little boy who’d been called on in class, and Cleveland enjoyed watching him squirm. Finally, Kemper hitched his thumb over his shoulder. “It sunk up north.”

“Yeah? Where up north? Lake Michigan? Canada? The North Pole?”

“Hell, everyone knows it was the Atlantic,” Kemper scowled, “over by Alaska.”

Cleveland said, “Alaska, huh?” and Kemper nodded his head uncertainly. Cleveland turned and looked over his shoulder towards the bar. He said, “Lily, honey, can you tell Einstein here where Alaska’s located?”

A girl perched on a barstool glanced up from the magazine she was reading. She wore a yellow tank top with pink butterflies, denim shorts and looked to be around eight, no more than nine years old. Her long blonde hair hung limply around her shoulders; her thin legs were white against the dark bar which her flip-flopped feet kicked in a slow rhythm. She twisted an earring absently as she thought. “It’s in the Pacific,” she began tentatively, her voice small and shaky at first but then firmer when she added, “near Russia.”

“Thank you, honey.” Lily turned back to her magazine and Cleveland turned back to Kemper. “Pretty pathetic. My little girl knows more about it than you. So next time just keep your trap shut about things you don’t have any knowledge of.” Cleveland took a drink and added, “And that would be most things.”

Kemper’s face reddened and his breathing grew deep. He muttered something under his breath. Cleveland’s tilted beer paused before his waiting mouth. “What was that?”

Kemper leaned back in his chair pulled a cigarette from the pack on the table before him. “Said bet she’s learned all kinds of things this summer, sitting up in this bar with her old man. Anyone ever tell you little kids ain’t ‘sposed to be hanging out in bars? What kind of father,”

Before Kemper could say another word he was on his back on the floor with the edge of the table pressing into his soft throat, staring red-faced and bug-eyed at Cleveland, gurgling for help as his arms waved uselessly at his side.

“Tell me again how to raise my kid, Goddammit! Go on, tell me!” Cleveland pressed the table harder, pushing his rage into Kemper, cutting off his air, choking him. “I’ll kill you,” Cleveland whispered fiercely. “I’ll take the very life from you, you filthy mongrel.”

It took three men to pull Cleveland back and toss him out the door. He picked himself up from the ground and brushed the gravel from his skin and clothes. It wasn’t the first time he’d been shown the way out of a bar, and he thrilled a little in knowing he could still stir things up, even if the Marines didn’t have any use for him anymore.

Click to download your free copy of Headshots!

Taking the Literary World by Storm, Yeah Right...

I've decided to take the literary world by storm.  To do this I will:

• Out think the publishing industry by writing the next international bestseller.  This book will have all the right elements - vampires, wizards and a revenge-seeking rape victim out to make a fashion statement.   

• Make readers fall in love with my characters to the point that restraining orders may be necessary.  I haven't done my job if my fictional characters are not being stalked by the delusional.

• Rack up jaw-dropping book reviews from critics, book bloggers and most importantly - readers.  This will probably involve sitting in a Denny's doling out my life savings to shady characters who look nothing like their online avatars. 

• Build my Twitter "tribe" to a gazillion followers through much Charlie Sheen like behavior.  And yes, this will involve myself, a machete and a pair of worn out porn stars (unfortunately, from the 1950's).

Once I have accomplished all this, SUCCESS will be mine!

Right...