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!