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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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...

As I Lay Dying...Literally

I am thinking of you, my healthy, non-infectious friends with your sinus passages clear of mucus and your lithe little bodies free of fever.

I am thinking how you're probably all eating ice cream and going outside to play while I waste away in this sick room amid my used tissues (at least I didn't say snot rags) and throat lozenge wrappers.

I am thinking you are enjoying a picnic or sunning yourself as today is probably the warmest yet and all signs of snow a forgotten wintry nightmare. (I can't say for certain as I am too weak and sickly to open a window and check for myself.)

I am thinking how you're probably not even giving a thought to my compromised condition or the fact that I may never walk again.  (Actually, there's nothing wrong with my legs, but as true friends I'd at least expect you to fear the very worst.)

But please, my healthy, non-infected friends, go about your day, enjoy yourselves, live it up. 

Whatever you do, don't let the fact that I am lying on my deathbed, battling a deadly disease (cold) make you feel bad, or ruin any of your good times.

Just know that you are in my thoughts today.

Key Components of the K9: A Tribute to My Head

In truth, I must admit to having a haircut christened “The K9” in a corporate office in Memphis.

And not just dubbed K9, but also diagrammed on a white board, the sides and front dissected to look very much like a cocker spaniel. It all was very professionally dissected and displayed for an eager audience. And in truth, it was a pretty accurate portrayal.

Humiliating? Yes, but not surprising. Turns out I have a secret genius for having my head violated.

I can ashamedly claim a long line of haircuts that have left me semi-mulleted, clown-headed, shagged up the back like Carol Brady, and helmet headed like a Lego figure.

Or worse.

Like the time my parents agreed to splurge on my first perm. I was 14 and it was the early eighties. The event? A most important basketball party at my new school. I wanted to make the very best impression possible.

As did my parents, which is why they sent me to the beauty school in the small west Tennessee town known more for councilmen smuggling sheep across state line to seedy motels than cutting edge style. 

The STUDENT assigned to my head was perhaps thirtyish, wore white leather shoes with yellow plastic soles, a sharp white smock and sported a yellow poodle perm that matched his trim yellow moustache.

Warning signals fired off in my sacrificial virgin's head like a big city Fourth of July celebration.

But I was in the chair and he was above me. And this is where I fail, at fourteen, and still to this day. As much of a big mouth as I have, as many pages I have filled with my thoughts, I am tragically unable to clearly communicate how I’d like my hair cut.

It has proven a historic impossibility for me and ultimately my downfall.

By the time that yellowed fiend was through with me, my sweet, innocent fourteen year old self was confused for my eighty year old great-grandmother – BY MY OWN FATHER.

And no, pictures will not be posted. 

This industrial strength perm had hold of my tender head through freshman year and into my sophomore year until finally, THANK GOD, it began to loosen up.

Just in time for my maniacal butcher of a sister to "trim" my loose ends.

The horror... the horror...

I'm Not Above Stealing and Publishing Your Writing As My Own

I mean, if its a really outstanding story, one that must be told, that has the potential to change lives and enlighten the masses, then yes, I think I can use it.

Of course, I'm looking for top quality material.  And the best part is, I really don't care what genre it is as long as it's the greatest story ever written.

But I draw the line at glittery vampires.  I'm not putting my name on any of that.

If you think you have the stuff I'm looking for, especially the nobel prize winning literary junk, send it to me and I'll consider stealing it and publishing it under my name.

And know you have my eternal gratitude for making my literary career a reality.

I Never Did Anything to Anyone

So why do I have a package of ultra-thick toilet paper on my desk at work?  Why do my co-workers feel they can gift me toilet paper at a department luncheon and make reference to my outhouse in Missouri while adding a crude comment about corncobs?

Why did my former manager think it appropriate to include my calculator in a big, green jello mold and leave it sitting where my keyboard had been?  And upon discovery, why did my innocent coworkers swear they had no knowledge of the incident all the while doubled over laughing?

Why did I return from lunch one time only to have each move I made sound loudly as if gas had escaped my body?  Why did everyone gather around me, pretending not to laugh each time I moved my chair or turned my head or asked someone to pull my finger?  Why was I the target of a fart machine placed perfectly behind my monitor?

Why was my cubicle decorated with photo shopped pictures of Michael Jackson riding a tricycle, or posing like a Greek god in a toga holding a plate of grapes, or worst in a jester costume? Or blown up rubber gloves painted silver and glittered taped like balloons everywhere? On my birthday of all days!

Why do these things keep happening to me when...

I NEVER DID ANYTHING TO ANYONE.
 

Margarita Memory Lane

               
I'm going out for margaritas with a friend.  I promise to be on my best behavior. 

This means I will NOT: 

• Drink a pitcher by myself.
• Throw things.  This includes chips, fried pickles, glasses of water or loose change.
• Step on cakes people set on the floor until time to celebrate a loved one's birthday.
• Jump on stage with a rockabilly band on Beale street.
• Try to paddle up the Mississippi river in a dead boat with a midget paddle.
• Be chased around by so-called friends pretending to be paparazzi.
• Be propositioned by a very lonely illegal alien with pretty good waiter skills.

Again, I swear on the ghost of Jose Cuervo to be on my utmost, no-holds barred, is it even possible best behavior. 

Just like every time before.

Eyeglasses: The Coolest Thing About Me

It's true.  They're brown and blue and make me look much more interesting than I really am. 

I was never cool enough for thigh high boots, spiky hair or big jangly jewelry.  Leopard print clothing? Yeah, right.

But my glasses? Boy, they make me feel uber-cool.

I wish I could squish my entire body behind the lens, they are that cool. 

I'd lead important meetings just like that, a pair of killer glasses at the head of the table, no body in sight. 

My voice would sound from the glasses, the voice of vision and clear reasoning.  All attention would be focused on the brown and blue framed lens.

No one would dare argue with the depth of my perception. 

I would be, in a word, VISIONARY.

Uncertain, Rethinking, Questioning

A decision to be made: considerations and implications.  What will it mean?  What will happen?  Who will it affect?

People wait anxiously for my word, my decision; pressing on me, bending my back with their hungry, expectant eyes.  Hurrying me when I need more time.

Only I'm not ready.  But there's nothing for it but to choose.  Decide and move on to the next thing, the next question, the next choice.  Because there is always something else to determine or choose or settle.  Always something else to commit to or solve.

It is never ending. 

I long to choose something new and challenging.  A risk, anything to get the blood rushing, to strain the muscles: anything to propel me up and beyond the routines of daily existence that increasingly comfort yet restrain me with each passing year. 

Anything to make me feel alive and vibrant on long and bitter winter days instead of insulated and isolated.

For now, harried and hurried I settle for the safe and known despite the fact that it is the tried and true that I most want to rebel against, to rise above.  It is the tried and true that seems to be thickening my blood and my waistline.

Decision made: I step to the counter and order Sesame Chicken even though it may not be what I really want. 

But what do I really want for dinner tonight, or the next night or the next?

More importantly, what do I really want for myself, my life and my future?  The same books and music and food? The same people and places?  The tried and true.

Or do I want unknown horizons and expanded views?  Music fresh to my ears, words and sentences and thoughts both strange and wondrous to me.  Untasted food, exotic to my tongue, foreign to my knowing body. 

I don't know.  I can't decide.

Just Call Me Francis The Talking Mule

Highlights of my lowbrow vacation in the wilds of Missouri on our forty acre property.

Continued to clean up the devastation from a 110 mph straight line wind storm from a year and half ago.  This involved much mule-like activity centering around chopping/hauling/burning acres of downed trees and limbs.  Great fun.

Took a break to visit an alcoholic ex-felon who drank crown royal, blessed me often and talked of all the big, violent women he knew.  His mind kept returning to a pool-game murder witnessed in prison.

Gifted a quart of moonshine in a mason jar.

Saw an outhouse with double toilets minus any walls in someone's front yard.  Classy.

Crushed a mouse with my massive body.  Don't ask.

Busted a chain on my dirtbike just as a terrible storm broke.  Waited for help in a torrential downpour with lightning crashing all about. 

Spent New Years discussing Charles Bukowski, the beat writers and government conspiracy with a banjo picker. The quart of moonshine was drained (not by me). 

Made it home on gas fumes.

All in all, most enjoyable.

23 Years of Disallusion: An Anniversary

On January 2nd, 1988 I:

• Left my car at the bottom of the driveway with a note to my parents.
• Drove to a church.  And yes, it was a Pentacostal church - recommended by a head trauma patient.
• Eloped in my prom dress.
• Honeymooned in a Motel 6 in Texarkana enroute to Dallas.
• Dined on a steak finger basket at Dairy Queen.
• Woke up in the middle of the night and swore my ring was missing.  When my newly-minted husband assured me it was on my finger, I exclaimed "I'm so disallusioned," and fell back to sleep.  Awoke five minutes later not remembering this incident.

On January 2nd, 2011 I:

• Have no intention of driving anywhere today.  Its negative 40,000 degrees in Iowa.  
• Plan to watch Weeds all day in my house coat.
• Will dine on whatever my old, worn-out husband cooks and will like it immensely.
• Slept soundly, dreaming I found arrowheads in dirt that I wanted to give my husband.

AND am still a bit disallusioned.

2011: Solving Problems Right Here, Right Now

I'm going to help you. That's right, I'm going to solve all your problems right here, right now.

I'm going to make this next year the most stress free, joy-filled period of your life.  

I'm going to ensure you exceed all your 2011 goals, both personally and professionally.

I'm going to have your dishes washed, the laundry folded and put away, and the blinds cleaned.

I'm going to have a balanced meal on the table at five o'clock every day, and put a yogurt in your lunch bag.

I'm going to give you a pat on the back when you need it and a high five when you least expect it.

I'm going to be that voice in your head that says, "Yes, you can!"

Who am I kidding?
Okay, so there's no way I can really do all that.  Not for you.  But maybe I can do it for myself.  And if I can for myself, then maybe you can do it for yourself.

Its at least worth a try, don't you think?

Be Creative. Write Something.

And so it began, words to paper: my first story.  Two really.  A class assignment from my sixth grade teacher.  Be creative, were her words, write something.

And so I did.  Quickly, pure adrenaline and emotion, I poured my twelve year old heart out onto lined notebook paper.  The stories?  I don't remember the first one.  But the second one,  how could I ever forget?  Pulitzer material had never been created by one as young as I. 

It was about a monkey using a banana like a telephone.  He used the banana to call down the tree to order (you guessed it) - more bananas!  It was, in short: BRILLIANT.  ASTOUNDING.  BREATHTAKING.

I wasn't the only one who thought it was the greatest thing ever put to paper.  My teacher chose my stories, both of them, to read to the class.  This was unheard of.  Both stories?  And from me, the new, misplaced southern girl in an Oregon classroom.

The reaction from my classmates?  Let's just say I still get thank you letters all these years later.  That monkey story really changed peoples lives.  Made them sit up and take notice of the world with wider eyes and an open heart.  Made them rethink everything they'd ever thought about anything and everything.

Well, maybe it didn't have that kind of an impact.  Maybe they only laughed at my monkey's antics.

But my stories were transformative, for me.  I'd found the thing I was good at and it instilled a belief in me that I have to this day. 

I'm meant to write.

This seed planted in 1980 has grown within me and is even stronger today than when it was planted.  It has given me a certitude in life, a purpose, one that I still dedicate myself to, some days more easily than others.

On those days when it does not come so easily, I think of that monkey with his banana to his ear saying, "Hello, hello?" and I know that I am still on the right path, even now when I am the misplaced southern girl in Iowa.

Thus my humble beginnings are revealed.

And you, avid reader?  How did it begin for you?  What are you great at and when did you discover this?  How has it impacted your life?

I'd really like to know.  I'm looking for new ideas to steal.  Who knows, you might become my next great monkey story?