Contest! Win a copy of Essential Guide to Getting Your Book Published

Workman Publishing kindly provided me with an advance copy of The Essential Guide to Getting Your Book Published, and I'll be reading through it and commenting about it later this month.

In other news, Workman also offered to let me host a book giveaway contest here on my blog. Woo hoo!

So here it is, The Essential Guide to Getting Your Book Published.

And here's some blurbage about the book:

The best, most comprehensive book for writers is now completely revised and updated to address ongoing changes in publishing. Published in 2005 as Putting Your Passion Into Print, this is the book that’s been praised by both industry professionals (“Refreshingly honest, knowledgeable and detailed. . . . An invaluable resource”—Jamie Raab, publisher, Grand Central Publishing) and bestselling authors (“A must-have for every aspiring writer.”—Khaled Hosseini, author of The Kite Runner). With its extensive coverage of e-books, self-publishing, and online marketing, The Essential Guide to Getting Your Book Published is more vital than ever for anyone who wants to mine that great idea and turn it into a successfully published book.

Written by experts with thirteen books between them as well as many years’ experience as a literary agent (Eckstut) and a book doctor (Sterry), this nuts-and-bolts guide demystifies every step of the publishing process: how to come up with a blockbuster title, create a selling proposal, find the right agent, understand a book contract, develop marketing and publicity savvy, and, if necessary, self-publish. There’s new information on how to build up a following (and even publish a book) online; the importance of a search-engine-friendly title; producing a video book trailer; and e-book pricing and royalties. Includes interviews with hundreds of publishing insiders and authors, including Seth Godin, Neil Gaiman, Amy Bloom, Margaret Atwood, Larry Kirshbaum, Leonard Lopate, plus agents, editors, and booksellers; sidebars featuring real-life publishing success stories; sample proposals, query letters, and a feature-rich website and community for authors.

About the Authors

Arielle Eckstut, cofounder of Little MissMatched, the innovative clothing company, is a writer, entrepreneur, and agent-at-large for the Levine Greenberg Literary Agency. She is the author of Pride and Promiscuity: The Lost Sex Scenes of Jane Austen.

David Henry Sterry is the coeditor of Hos, Hookers, Call Girls, and Rent Boys (front page review, The New York Times Book Review) and author of Master of Ceremonies,Chicken, Satchel Sez, and the forthcoming The Glorious World Cup. He is also an actor, media coach, book doctor, and activist for at-risk youth. The authors are married and live in Montclair, New Jersey, with their daughter.

By the way, the authors can be located on the Twitters at http://twitter.com/TheBookDoctors. And you can find me on the Twitters, too: http://www.twitter.com/thatneilguy.

So how can you win? Easy!

HOW TO WIN

Just drop a comment into the comment field below. Make sure you've got an email address or twitter handle in there so I can contact you.

I'll draw a random winner on October 20. So you have until midnight eastern time on October 19, 2010, to enter. And you know what? If I get enough entries, I may just give away two copies. Because I'm a giver! And so is Workman Publishing!

The book doesn't actually get released into the wild until November 11. So this is your chance to SCORE EARLY! Woo hoo!

Cuffed

I wrote this yesterday for Leah Petersen's five minute fiction challenge.

I did not win, I was not even a finalist. But I liked what I came up with...

I first spotted her at the blood pressure machine, left arm cuffed. She wore sweatpants and a tank top. Her hair was unkempt at best. I shouldn’t have given her a second glance.

But there was something about her. Though I couldn’t even see her eyes, I couldn’t peel mine away. Maybe it was her skin, so smooth, pale, just the suggestion of freckles on the shoulders. I guess I’ll never know.

I stood, frozen, the cart still empty in front of me. I’d been heading for the pharmacy aisle with the intention of also making a quick trip through produce, but I couldn’t move. I listened, entranced, as the machine click click clicked, the cuff slowly releasing its grasp on her arm.

Finally, it relaxed, the reading done, and she withdrew her arm, satisfied, I think, with the result. She spotted me immediately and gave a sort of hesitant half-smile. Her face was extraordinary. Porcelain, the disheveled red hair serving to highlight her delicate features.

“It’s all yours,” she said.

Puzzled, I simply blinked a couple of times, then, broken from my reverie, realized what she meant.

“Oh, right,” I said. “Thanks.”

I had no desire to take my blood pressure – I’d fought hypertension for years and frankly feared the results – but my guilt at being caught staring got the best of me, and I took my seat in the machine.

She didn’t give me a second glance as she walked toward the front of the store. The cuff was already squeezing my arm, sending tingles into my forearm.

I cursed, disturbed with my utter inability to initiate even the most rudimentary conversation with her.

I pushed the button to interrupt the reading, pulled out my arm and, heart racing, rushed to the front door.

10

First I read Lisa Adams' version. Then Jennifer Mendelsohn's. And so I decided to join in. Because, you know, why not.

So here are ten favorite things, things that just make me happy, in no particular order. May include nerdity.

1. My wife's hair. Thick, deceptively curly and gifted with a mysterious, hard to name combination of blond, brown and red tones, depending on the light.

2. Sinatra. His voice, his style, his essence. It's still Frank's world. We just live in it.

3. My books. I have way too many of them, but I love them all. And I had the chilling thought yesterday that I may not actually get to read all of them. There are so many, and so many more come out every year, and there's only so much time in a day...

4. Autumn. I like the crispness in the air, the leaves, the sweaters, the time falling back, the hot beverages and Brach's autumn mix.

5. My glasses. Okay, I both love them and hate them. I hate them because I hate the fact that I need them. My eyesight is deteriorating, so I can't read small print anymore. And it's not just small print. It's small-ish print that gives me trouble now. Still great with regular vision and long distance. But reading is becoming a glasses-madatory event. Which brings me to the glasses themselves. I specifically chose them because they were as close as I could find to the pair worn by David Tennant as Doctor Who. At last, a sort of costume piece I can wear in the real world without anyone giving me a second glance. And not as uncomfortable as wearing my home made Spider-man costume under my regular clothes way back in fourth grade. Yes, I am a nerd.

6. Donuts. I talk about them a lot more than I actually eat them, but I love them. Torus of love. Frosting of light. Sprinkles of peace.

7. Jerry Goldsmith. His music continues to challenge and inspire me. Much more than any of the individual films he scored, I love his music. It's complex, rhythmic and filled with moments that make me smile, or pause, or simply shake my head in awe. Star Trek: The Motion Picture remains his masterpiece, and some thirty years later, I still find myself listening to it all-too-often.

8. My house. It's not the greatest place in the world, it's not my dreamhouse, there are plenty of things I'd change if I could. But I love to be at home. I love to be with my family and my stuff. I love being at home.

9. Pie. Cherry pie, especially, but I also like a nice sweet/tart blueberry pie. I love baking apple pies. Some of my fondest memories involve gathering with friends once a week to bake pie and watch Twin Peaks. My dad recently passed away, and his favorite was always cherry pie. He didn't really care for anything else. I inherited this love of cherry pie and I'm thinking I need to bake and consume one soon in his honor.

10. My kids. I know, a sentimental choice, but I love the way they make me smile, the way they already seem smarter than I am, the way they make me challenge myself to become a better person. And they're both cute as buttons.

Marian Call - My New Favorite Singer

I don't really know, anymore, how I found out about her.

I could swear she began following me on the twitters. And then I began following her. It could have been the other way around, but it's hard to recall now.

She is Marian Call, an Alaskan singer/songwriter/nerd. I got interested in her twitters because of the nerdliness factor. It was only incidental, to me, that she was an Alaskan folk musician. 

Over the past few months, however, I occasionally dropped by her website and listened to music samples and followed with interest her announcement of a self-funded, self-motivated, fan-driven 50 state tour. I figured she'd have to get to South Carolina at some point and I should do my best to make sure she showed up at a venue near me. I mean, how many times do you get to meet in person someone from Alaska that you only know via twitter?

I don't know how much I actually contributed to her choice of venue (although I was able to convince a local publication to run an interview with her), but last weekend she performed at Coffee Underground, a great space in our great downtown. And she was, well, great.

Marian Call's signature instrument is a typewriter. It serves as percussion during a couple of songs, including the delightful Nerd Anthem. It's a clever device and entirely fits in with the spirit of the song. And although she sings about spaceships and Firefly and Battlestar Galactica, you wouldn't necessarily know it by listening to the lyrics. Her songs are always smart, melodic and a delight to hear. She's also a performer who really shines on stage, bringing with her a lot of natural if unpolished style and wry charisma that make her a lot of fun to watch.

If she's coming to your area, she's absolutely worth checking out. Failing that, check out her debut CD, Vanilla, which contains the Volvo Song - a favorite of mine as it includes a reference to donuts.

But I don't want to leave you with the impression that she's some sort of geek novelty act. She's a smart songwriter and lovely performer and her songs are about much more than just geekery.  I can't wait for her to embark on another round-the-country tour and swing back through this area. She's just a delight. And so photogenic!

So one day, I'd like to write a song for her. Not that she needs my help, she's an excellent songwriter. But I'd love to write something in the vein of my two science-y songs (Love Theme from This Week in Science aka TWIS Theme and World Robot Domination, both of which can be heard here) and have her perform. Ah well. A boy can dream...

All the Way

Sammy Davis, Jr., stared into the cold, lizardlike eyes of the alien being sitting across from him, sighed, then tossed his cards onto the table.

“Man, I just cannot read this dude.”  Sammy finished off his highball and sighed.

            

Dean Martin threw a $100 chip in the pot.  “I’m in.”

            

Peter Lawford folded quickly and all eyes turned to Frank.

            

Sinatra exhaled a long plume of smoke and called the bet.  “All right, kid.  What’ve you got?”

            

The alien flipped its hole card with a long, spindly claw and attempted to grin as it exposed a fourth king.

           

“Read them and weep,” it said in a growling monotone.

“Dammit,” Sammy stood quickly, kicking away his chair. “We’re in deep trouble, cats.”

Lawford chimed in, “He’s right, Frank. There’s no stopping this guy.”

“Cool it.” Sinatra leaned forward, stared into the alien’s eyes. “I’m changing the deal."

Book Giveaway!

I don't know for sure how I first stumbled across his website, but it may very well have been related to Columbo. Tim King has written about his love for Columbo, and I, too, have a long history of loving the rumpled detective. (Speaking of which, have you seen the new Columbo Collection of short stories, written by William Link, one of Columbo's creator?)

But since that initial contact, I've gone on to find that I really enjoy and appreciate Tim's thoughts on writing, both on his regular blog and his specialized Be the Story site. I follow him on the twitters and I'm even friends with him on the Facebook.

And so I was pleased when Tim asked if I'd like to participate in his Big Book Giveaway. He's written two books so far, an autobiographical look at Love Through the Eyes of An Idiot and From the Ashes of Courage, a romantic novel. I have the second novel (and several other ebooks, including the sure-to-be-a-fun-read Shatnerquake) on my hard drive, ready to be read, but I still have trouble actually reading long-form works on my computer. One day, I will. I'm sure of it.

Meanwhile, I'm pleased to offer a (hardbound real-live book) copy of From the Ashes of Courage to one lucky reader.

About the book:

Gail Bishop is a headstrong, driven, single-minded businesswoman, a successful independent professional at only 29 years old. But she still feels empty. Eddie Chase is a fun-loving real-estate agent who made a mint in the boom market, now fast running out of money. And their friends set them up on a blind date, unaware that many years ago, they were once married to each other.

Now, both are taken aback by their feelings for each other at a romantic, seaside cottage on Ardor Point, and by the impact this will have on the rest of their lives. This long-languishing relationship that Gail thought was surely dead, could it hold the secret, the meaning of life that she’s looking for?

A heart-wrenching story of human kindness and love without strings.

TO ENTER THE DRAWING simply add a comment to this post. I'll randomly select a winner on, oh, let's think, how about next Wednesday, September 8, 2010. So add a comment before Wednesday and you'll be eligible.

Thanks for playing. Tim will ship the book directly to the winner, with, I assume, a personalized inscription.

UPDATE: September 8

Thanks to random.org, the winner is (insert drum roll here) commenter #5, Wendy! Congrats! I'll be emailing you soon!

Syndication

I’m a Mark Harris now, a Man From Atlantis.  I was a Fonz until last season.   My parents are Bradfords.  Still.  Most of my friends are Starskys or Fonzies or Columbos.  Except for one guy who’s still a Gilligan.  He’ll never get an Angel that way.  You’ve got to move on.  We can’t all be Gilligans forever.  That’s what my Dad says.  He’s really more of a Ward than a Tom.  They’re all still living in syndication.  I like the new stuff.  Every season, something new comes up.  I like to pick my favorites early and take a chance that it will stay on for more than one season.  Though nowadays, some of the new shows don’t even last that long.  They disappear after a few episodes and we never see them again, not even in syndication.

Somebody, probably a Tom Snyder, figured out that word, syndication, from the Broadcasts.  For a long time we thought that when a show went away, the Broadcasts were angry with us.  Some go away very quickly.  But sometimes, they return, usually in between the games and daytimes but before the new episodes begin.  That’s syndication -- the time in between new shows.

All the Broadcasts tell us how life should be lived.  We try hard to follow the Broadcasts.  Most of them take place in a mythical world called Los Angeles.  It doesn’t really exist anywhere, or so the Sagans say.  But we all know that.  Nothing in the Broadcasts is real.  They’re simply messages, telling us what to do.  Messages from someone far away.

A Potsie kid told me once that the Broadcasts started millions of years ago on some long dead planet.  I told him, “Sit on it.”  That’s about the only thing a Potsie understands.

I found this short story on a floppy disc. A floppy disc. I wrote it in August 1996.

Breathe Easy

Frank grabbed the toaster out of my hand.

“Hey! I’ve got bread in there!”

“I don’t care.” He fingered the dangling cord. “I’ve got more to worry about than burnt bread.”

“I know, And I’m sorry, but, I can’t really help you. I’ve almost gone through my quota.”

Frank opened my trash can, tipped the toaster and shook my bread slices into the bin.

“Nice.”

“Hey,” he said, dropping the toaster in after the bread. “You brought this upon yourself, my friend.”

I gave up.

“Fine.” I said. “I will give you all the air you need.”

He smiled. “I thank you.” 

He grabbed the long hose and attached it to his breathing tank, then kicked on the compressor.

I watched his needle rise and my needle fall.

“Thanks again, buddy.” He wiped some condensation off his faceplate, stuck it over his head and took in a few deep breaths. Then he winked at me, slipped into the airlock and exited into the haze.

Stupid global warming.

Thanks for the writing prompt, @alphabete 

Untitled Five Minute Fiction

Leah Petersen hosts a weekly Five Minute Fiction contest on her blog. This week, I decided to play along. She posts a one-word writing prompt and you then have five minutes to write a story.

Here's what I came up with. Oh, and I won the contest. Woo hoo!

“Hungry?”

He cocked an eyebrow at me. Stupid Vulcan. He hasn’t got more than that one stupid expression. At least not that I’ve seen in these seven months.

“I found another bug under the mattress.”

He didn’t even glance at me, just sat there, meditating or whatever it is Vulcans do for hour upon hour, day in, day out.

“Fine, I’ll eat it.”

When they threw us both into this cell, I figured his super strength and logic would get us out in no time.

No such luck.

Green blooded bastard.

“Hey!”

He glanced over.

“Why don’t you work on a plan to get us out of here instead of just sitting there another day like a big, stupid pointy eared rock.”

He reached over, pinched my neck.

Sometimes, it’s the only way I can get to sleep.

Names

I decided I’d make my fortune with a science fiction novel, maybe an epic saga, not unlike Asimov’s Foundation series.  He often claimed that he merely cribbed The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire.  Change the names, add atomic powered spaceships and bang, instant classic.

I was going to do it with the story of Lyndon Johnson. In space.

Start with a backwater planet, a place fiercely independent and proud of its own heritage, yet saddled with vast regions of dirt poor farmers and ranchers. And a young boy who grows up there, lying to his friends and neighbors, possessing an instinctive genius for political manuevering, ends up in the galactic council or whatever I ended up calling it.  Round about volume three or four I’d have to come up with the Vietnam of space, but that was much later.  And the space Kennedys.  It just all seemed to fall into place in my head.  Sketchy, but doable.

First I had to come up with the planet.  I wanted to name the planet first.  I mean Texas produced LBJ, was instrumental in producing him, so my space Texas had to be just as unique.  Then I had to name spaceboy himself, little Lyndon.  In fact, maybe I needed his name first, then work backwards to the name of the planet.

Drebbin. Nope.

Shamlet Walker.Maybe

Initials! That was it. Maybe give him the initials LBJ, but don't use them. That would help future academicians to help understand my underlying metaphor. "A ha!" one would say. "The hero has the same initials as LBJ! It must be some sort of parable. I shall write my thesis on it!"

Okay, so future doctorates depended on this. Let's see. Had to be subtle, but strong.

Lipid. Lipid Behrans Joculan. Yes. A good space name.

So young Lipid, who'd be given the nickname of "cowboy" as a kid (genius!) would grow up a backwoods space farmer, then go on to bring the glory of galactic civilization back to his homeworld, then rise to patriarchal overlord of the imperial senate, then ascend the throne to become the Great Space Emperor.

It would practically write itself!

Yes, and the great space Vietnam would loom over Emperor Lipid's reign, even as he continued to make strides toward equality for aliens and humans.

Oh yeah, baby.

So, next I needed the name of the planet. Lodestar. Yes! It was like saying Lone Star when you had a stuffy nose, and Lone Star, of course, is the nickname of Texas. So subtle! So perfect! The future doctoral dissertations were piling up!

So Lipid B. Joculan of the planet Lodestar. Right. Now an opening sentence.

An opening sentence.

Well, that could wait until tomorrow. I had the actual hard work done. Names. Naming a thing gives it power. I had the power.

I took the power and stuck it in the back of my brain. It short circuited, spun me around. I wobbled, fell back on my bed.

The ceiling spiralled. My feet floated. I could see the light. Rising. Rising.

Then a hat. And a face. A familiar face. Scowling. And then a voice. A familiar voice.

"Don't screw with me, boy."

I closed my eyes, trying to shut out the giant head of Lyndon Johnson now consuming my depth of field. But he burned through my eyelids, pried them open with the force of his will.

"Listen to me, boy. I will not stand for this. Do you understand?"

I nodded.

"I said, do you understand?"

"Y-yes."

"Good. And don't try to recast it with Jack, either. Get your own damned ideas."

"Yes, sir."

And he began to fade, and I relaxed, and then he was back.

"Wait. Use Dick. Skewer the son of a bitch."

And with that, he was gone.

I sat up.

Let's see.

Dixon. Flitchart Dixon of the planet Lorbayinda...

Numb

I wrecked my car during high school. Ran into a tree. What a moron.

I broke my ankle, split my lip open, but otherwise came through it okay.

Or did I?

Ever since then, I feel like part of my face, around my upper lip especially, has been less sensitive. It's not that it's numb, or has no feeling at all, just, maybe, less than there should be.

And, maybe, I'm emotionally less sensitive as well. Sometimes I think I'm practically Vulcan. Is it a result of trauma, is it a reaction to moving so many places, starting over so many times over the course of my life, is it some sort of coping strategy that evolved? I don't know. But sometimes, I feel like I'm emotionally numb.

The protagonist of Sean Ferrell's debut novel, Numb, arrives into the world literally numb. His first remembered moments are of stumbling through a sandstorm into a circus somewhere in the backwaters of Texas. He's numb, has no feeling at all, and soon becomes part of the circus sideshow. Nails are driven through his skin and he doesn't feel it. So begins his journey through popular culture, first as a freak, then as a, well, more high class freak. Numb, as he's called, experiences life without physical pain. And, in a way, he seems to have trouble relating to emotional pain as well. Yet he's certainly capable of causing - or at least bearing witness to - a tremendous amount of pain in himself and those who get too close to him.

Numb, the novel, sucked me right in. I received it Friday afternoon and found myself grabbing it at every available opportunity. By Sunday morning I had devoured it. Could it be that I detected myself in the way Numb, the protagonist, stumbles through the world?

The book put me in mind of Paul Auster, whose novels contain a similar feeling of detachment from their narrators. In Numb, Ferrell creates a sort of avatar of and commentary on contemporary culture. Numb, the character, begins life fully grown, aware of and knowledgeable about everything except his own past. He starts his life in obscurity, grows a following, and, by the power of others more than any steps he takes himself, gets dragged up the ladder of success. He ends up in the spotlight, both figuratively and literally, as Ferrell casts his glare at the absurdity of celebrity. 

But these kind of metaphorical overtones aren't shoved in your face. It's a very open, deceptively easy to read work. I found it to be engrossing, entertaining and, in a few places, disturbing. Ferrell's voice is assured, his writing crisp and engaging. As I mentioned, I zoomed through it, caught up in Numb's strange journey.

I loved little observations. "Living for more than a few days in a hotel is like being dead and resting in a morgue. Everything you need is at your disposal, but you need nothing." I appreciated the way Numb, the character, acknowledges and understands and is affected by the internet but never directly interacts with it. I loved the irony of Numb being a man who lets every one else make decisions for him, the complete opposite of every Hollywood hero, while Hollywood courts him and tries to tell his story - a story that Numb himself doesn't even know. It's funny because it's true.

As I sit here thinking about the novel, I discover more and more interesting layers. There's a Christ story in there (is Mal, Numb's friend and sometime savior, a John the Baptist, paving Numb's way in the wilderness?), lots of digs at celebrity culture and Hollywood, and a parable about someone like me, someone who can feel that the world spins so fast, that life goes by so quickly, that things are so strange as to leave him numb.

Souvenir

She keeps it in her dresser drawer. The top drawer, with her jewelry and stockings and souvenir matchbooks.

Sometimes, when she feels truly alone, she unseals the plastic bag and takes a long sniff. His scent is still there. Or so she tells herself.

It’s soothing. Comforting. It makes her feel like he’s still here.

She only saw him once. In Atlantic City. She’d been so young. He seemed so old.

She’d gone to the concert with her friend Beverly. Whatever happened to Beverly? Hope she didn’t marry a lout like Mike.

Mike. Ugh.

She risks another whiff. This time she touches it, just for a moment, letting her fingertips brush the silk.

He’d been so electric. Sure, in retrospect, he looked a little unhealthy, sometimes he even forgot the words of the songs, but he was so alive, so vital, so important.

And he’d whisked that scarf from around his neck and walked to the edge of the stage, and she caught his eye, and she began shaking, she couldn’t stand up, it was so hard, and he looked at her, and he touched her hand, and he gave her the scarf.

Beverly never spoke to her again.

She seals the bag, sticks it back in her drawer, safely tucked in the very back, on top of her 45 rpm record of “Can’t Help Falling in Love With You.”

“Thank you,” she says to no one. “Thankyouverymuch.”

Wireless

Just finished reading Wireless by Charles Stross. Here's a review of it I posted on Amazon.


It's the worlds he creates. Layered, fascinating worlds. In stories like Missile Gap, A Colder War and Palimpsest, he creates strangely familiar yet utterly cold and different realities from our own, worlds so textured I wanted to spend more time exploring them. This was my first Stross book and it's a mixed bag. I loved the world-building stories mentioned above, but felt left out of some others due to my utter lack of knowledge of Lovecraft. And one story, Trunk and Disorderly, never pulled me in at all - I finally just skipped over it. Stross plays with some wonderful recurring themes - cold war angst, "meta" character names, slide presentations and terraforming - throughout the collection that kept me engaged and, sometimes, smiling. Other conventions, such as the Lovecraftian nature undergiding some of the stories, completely put me off. And his favorite words seem to be caul and lour. Overall, I'd recommend this book. It's, as the cover blurb brags, "a lively collection" and makes me want to seek out more of his work. Though I'll definitely be skipping the "laundry" novels, if the story here is any indication of their general nature. Just not my cup of tea.

Noodle

They called him Noodle.

He never knew why.

Maybe because of the limp. Maybe the stringy blond hair. Who knew anymore? Kids say the darnedest things, and all that.

So Noodle it was.

He joined the Navy. They overlooked the limp, desperate, he guessed, for sailors. They shaved his head, for which he thanked them.

He lived on an aircraft carrier, a giant city on the sea. He filled vending machines for twelve hours a day. Off duty, he learned to smoke and stare at overhead conduits and tune out the noise of the other men.

He made one friend. One.

He told no one about his name. They all called him Rayburn, if they called him anything at all.

During an extended leave, his friend invited him to stay at another guy's apartment. They were three Navy guys, stuck in a second floor craphole in San Diego.

Friday morning, he woke to the sound of thumping. Thuds. Laughter. Strain. He shouldn't be able to hear it. He tunes out every noise on the ship. Why would this wake him?

He stumbles into the living room where the other two guys are wrestling. Wrestling. On the living room floor. Are they drunk? It's five in the morning.

"Stop it," he says.

"Tell me that to my face, Rayburn," one of them replies, slamming the other to the floor. The whole place rattles.

There's a banging on the door. An urgent knocking.

He opens it. It's a girl. A woman. She's, well, gorgeous. Her eyes are blue, bluer than, yes, the Mediterranean. He's speechless.

"Will you guys knock it off?"

She's wrapped in a flannel robe. She's tired. She's angry. She's beautiful.

"Oh, sorry," he says.

The other two guys rush to the door. "Yeah, we're sorry. Real sorry."

She nods, begins to walk away.

"Hey," one of the other guys says, "You wanna come in?"

She stops. Faces them. "No," she says, smiling. "Actually, I want to kill you."

They laugh. They smack each other on the back and head toward the refrigerator.

She looks at him. He watches her pad down the hall.

"Sorry," he says again.

She stops, turns, looks at him.

"I don't really know them," he says. It just comes spilling out. "I tried to stop them. I don't really understand them. I guess they're used to being on a big, noisy ship."

She blinks, shoves her hands into the pockets of her robe.

"Well, they've ruined my morning."

"I know," he says. He walks into the hall. "Can I buy you a cup of coffee to make up for their idiocy?"

She stares at him. "What's your name?"

"Noodle," he blurts out, unthinking.

"Noodle?"

He nods.

'Really?"

He nods again.

She shakes her head. Says nothing, It feels like ten thousand years go by.

"Yeah," she says. "You can buy me a cup of coffee. And then we're gonna come back upstairs and kill those guys."

He closes the door behind him.

Headshot

For your approval: my headshot (originally snapped by Tim Brosnan for Mauritius).

Artist Profile Article

Here's a link to an article I wrote for Greenville Business Magazine about the new Artistic/Executive Director of Centre Stage (a great space where I've acted in two great shows, including last fall's Mauritius).

Contact

Looking up at the blank disc, she thought, “Orange?”

Hovering, just like those books said, somewhere just above the treetops.

She always thought they’d be silver. Not orange.

She fumbled through her purse, then cursed her luck for leaving her camera at home. Now she’d be seen as just another rube, some glory-hungry moron making up stories about flying saucers.

The media would crucify her. The skeptics would scoff. She’d be sent for an evaluation and then a quiet demotion and then unanticipated “budget cuts” would send her packing.

Dammit.

The disc descended, touched the ground, now only a dozen yards away.

She watched, silent, as a door, for lack of a better word, appeared and opened on the surface of the disc.

Will you look at that. A live, gray alien just like all the books described. So angelic, delicate, curious. Friendly. Her heart pounded.

She was witness to a visitor from another planet. She raised her arm, pointed at the alien.

BOOM.

The alien fell backwards, shuddered, then grew still as a pool of orange blood formed around it.

Good thing she’d remembered to pack her pistol.

Hawaii Five-0

I posted a short piece with lots of versions of the great great great great great Hawaii Five-0 theme.

It's at Film Score Monthly.

Strung

She strung me up like as much meat, like a dirty gambler in one of those cowboy movies, like a kite in a tree, strung up, deserted, left for dead. Thanks a lot, baby.








This was concocted in 60 seconds after seeing a one word writing prompt at http://oneword.com. 

Leap

“Mister Darien?”

He opened his eyes, but otherwise didn’t move.

“Mister Darien, do you know where you are?”

He glanced around. He couldn’t move. A woman in a lab coat stared at him. Though not unfriendly, the whole room seemed sterile, clinical. A hospital?

“Mister Darien, can you hear me?”

He nodded.

“Mister Darien, you’ve been through a shock. But I have to ask you this. What year is it? Do you remember what year it is?”

He furrowed his brow and finally croaked out an answer. “1942.”

The woman frowned. He watched her shuffle to some strange high-tech gadgets. She sounded American. But this room, this technology, it seemed so, well, foreign.

“How…” he began, but no more words would come. He felt so drained, so tired. So old.

She nodded. “You were in an accident. Do you remember any of it?”

He strained at the thought. He could feel the rumble of the plane, hear the flak exploding all around. He could see Bains and Ennis heading for the door, ready to jump.

“I’m right behind you!” he remembered shouting, struggling to retighten his parachute rig, then he, too, went to the door and he saw first Bains and then Ennis, torn apart by enemy fire almost before they had a chance to pull open their chutes, then the Lieutenant grabbing him before he could make the leap, shouting at him, telling him the plans had changed, and he could see them shut the door.

But wait. He’d made it. The plane landed safely. Then he could see Becky, her face, their wedding, the kids, he could see their three kids, and the beach house and then his daughter’s wedding and all those years at Upton’s Department Store and his retirement party and he could see the road, the rain-slicked road, and Becky beside him, and his struggle to keep the car on the road, and he felt so old, and he could hear her scream and he looked up at the doctor and now he remembered.

“Becky?” he asked.

The doctor shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

He closed his eyes to 2010 and leaped out of the plane.

Hunger

Karen rushed into the kitchen.

“Mom!”

Her mother let out a sigh and said into the phone, “Hold on a minute.” She gave Karen the eye. “What is it now?”

“Can I have one more donut? Please?” Karen gave her mother the nicest little angel smile she could muster.

“Just take the bag,” her mother said. “And don’t get any of that sugar on your clothes.”

Karen grabbed the bag from the counter and returned to the backyard.

“Okay,” she said as she sat back down at the edge of the sandbox. “There’s only two left, so we can each have one.”

She pulled one out of the bag and held it in the air.

"This is what we call a donut,” she said. “Can you say donut?”

Ambassador Klarn, fifth generation diplomat from the First Federation and sole survivor of the invasion fleet glanced at his warbird, buried in the sand. Then he stared at the girl, the gigantic child, towering over his 6 inch frame. He could feast on that pastry for a week.

He sighed, brushed a fleck of sand from his jacket, and said in his most dignified voice, “Donut.”

Diamond Ruby

Thanks again to Twitter, I've just finished reading a wonderful novel.

I first started seeing positive chatter about the novel a couple of months before its release. Then I started following the author, Joe Wallace, and read a lot more positive buzz. Two weeks ago I went ahead and ordered it. And I'm so glad I did.

I expected Diamond Ruby to follow the exploits of an 18 year old girl who pitches against Babe Ruth. What I didn't expect was to get totally sucked into this book.

Wallace uses a historians eye to incorporate wonderful detail into Ruby's world. The New York of the 1920s came alive with characters and incidents as Ruby's path encompassed grim survival and triumphant success.

Mid-book I got so caught up in one particular chapter - Ruby's debut performance in the minor leagues - that I had a big, stupid grin plastered on my face the whole time. I wanted Ruby to succeed. I'd been with her through the hard times and reveled in her new role.

Here's what I said over at Amazon, "At once thoughtful, informative and entertaining, Diamond Ruby lives in a very real cross section of 1920s America. Filled with great period details, Wallace spins a yarn that ranges from the tragic to the triumphant. Some chapters had me grimacing while others left me with a big stupid grin on my face. One chapter in particular was absolutely exhilarating in pace, detail and service to the character - I was so enmeshed in Ruby's story that I shared her experience on the pitcher's mound. It was, quite simply, the most fun I've had reading a book in a long time. Thanks, Twitter, for pointing me to this gem of a novel."

Just Business

“Another moneymaking scheme,” he said. “Great.”

“No,” she said, grabbing his arm before he turned away. ‘This one will actually work. Really.”

He couldn’t even summon the energy to sigh. He simply stared at her, taking in the fiery energy behind her green eyes.

Her smile almost melted him. Her enthusiasm almost sucked him right back in.

Almost.

“Give it up, Karen.”

He set his empty glass on the counter then headed straight for the door.

“Come on,” she said. “I’ve got it all planned out. It’s perfect.”

“Sorry,” he said, closing the door behind him.

She stood still for a long moment, drained her own glass, set it down and retrieved a large plastic bag. 

Using a cloth, she placed his glass into the bag, then set about wiping the doorknob.

She looked around the room then, satisfied, reached for the phone.

“It’s me,” she said. “He’ll be dead within the hour. No, of course, no way to trace anything back to you. Or me. I’ll expect to see the other half in my account first thing tomorrow morning, before my flight leaves.”

She smiled. “Nice doing business with you, too, ma’am.”

Seduction

She looks into his eyes

Green. No, blue. Turquoise?

“Kiss me,” she says.

A sigh.

“You know I can’t.”

“You never will if you don’t try.”

“It doesn’t work that way anymore!”

He rolls over.

She pats his jellied limb.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

She rolls to the mirror, sighs, rummages through the top drawer for her brown eyes. She pops out a blue one, tosses it into a glass of Efferdent, sticks a brown one into the socket. Then she does the same for her other eye. And for her other one.

He never could resist her brown eyes.

On Deck

She glanced over the bow.

Nothing.

“Carroway!”

No response.

She sighed. No use. May as well give it up. There’s no way he could have survived out there this long. 

No way.

“Carroway!”

Nothing.

She turned, slowly, so slowly. She took a few steps toward the wheelhouse. She looked back, scanned the horizon.

Nothing.

She kicked the door open and planted herself at the wheel. She hesitated another moment before cranking up the engines.

Done. This is it.

No more.

Last trip.

Ever.

She spun the wheel, headed toward the mainland.

Stupid.

She never should have left him alone. Never.

She knew better. What a stupid, rookie mistake.

Thump thump thump.

A new sound, one she hadn’t heard from this trusty old scow.

Thump thump thump.

Something bouncing. Metal.

Metal.

Of course.

So stupid.

She slowed the engine, scanned the deck of the wheelhouse, spotted the revolver.

Sighing, she grabbed it, strolled out of the wheelhouse, tossed it into the deep.

Better clean that stray spot of blood, too, before she made it back to the dock.

Done.

Last trip.

Ever.

The Associates

I loved The Paper Chase. It arrived on TV in 1978 and, a critical darling but ratings nonstarter, lasted only one season.

So, being the kind of person I am, I tracked down the book (by John Jay Osborn Jr.) that inspired it. I read it. I loved it. I read it again. I've probably read it three times over the years.

The show returned to TV for a second and third season on Showtime, and I had the good fortune to have Showtime then and got to watch them all.

I really liked the character Hart, the protagonist, the Iowa boy now struggling through law school.

Did I mention I grew up in Iowa?

Anyway, in the throes of Paper Chase fever, I purchased another novel by the same author, The Associates.

I stuck it on my shelf, planning to read it.

Flash forward two or three decades.

I grabbed The Associates from my shelf last week. I read it.

It's the story of a guy just starting out in a big NY law firm. He confronts some stereotypical partners and falls in love with a fellow associate at the firm, a headstrong divorcee.

The book is written in a chunky, episodic style and suffers a little from being, well, very seventies. The characters, their assumptions, their stereotypes, all belong to another age. It took a long time for me to get drawn in to the novel, and I did end up enjoying it, but nowhere near on a Paper Chase level. If nothing else, its depiction of the pressures involved with working in a big law office made me happy my Paper Chase induced flirtation with going to law school never panned out.

Structurally, I can see similarities to the arc of The Paper Chase - a young midwest guy as fish out of water, romance with a "liberated" gal, a wise but distant mentor, a philosophically minded pal, a race to conclude a big law project, the discarding of traditional values at novel's end. But The Associates just never clicked for me. I can see, however, why the novel spawned a(nother short-lived) TV series, since the set up and broad strokes of young folks versus partners plus political and romantic tensions has a strong appeal (and I suspect L.A. Law somewhat fulfilled this).  Fun fact: the TV series starred a young Martin Short.

As a novelist, Osborn ended up penning one more (which I wouldn't mind reading - I like Osborn's style), then seems to have given it up, remaining a law professor. Kingsfield's shadow looms large, and it seems Osborn ended up trying to step into his creation's footsteps.

Office Politics

She walked by my cubicle without so much as a glance.

Nice.

Three years together, two years of being just plain coworkers on top of that, and it ends like this.

Snubbed.

I stood, peeked over my back wall.

“Medlin.”

He glanced up, raised his eyebrows in reply.

“Hand me a donut.”

His eyes returned to his screen but his hand held up a Powdered Sugar Delite.

"Thanks.”

I accepted the donut, held it gingerly, trying my best to avoid sugary dandruff.

Fifteen feet away, she stood at the copier, her back to me. I could hear the CHUNK Wok-Wokka CHUNK rhythm of collating papers.

I judged the weight of the Powdered Sugar Delite, the distance to the copier, the folds in the dark navy blouse she loved so much.

I let it go.

It hit the bulletin board, leaving a halo of sugar on the Equal Opportunity in the Workplace poster, bounced off the top of the copy machine and landed on the break room counter.

She didn’t move.

Her collating job finished. She gathered her papers, plucked the donut from the counter and whirled around.

As she walked past me, she slowed ever so slightly, opened her full lips and shoved the donut into her mouth, licking her lips as she glared into my eyes.

She disappeared around the corner.

I frowned, then shouted. “Made you look!”

KXII Action News Theme!

Back in the mid-eighties, I worked for tv station KXII, channel 12, in Sherman Texas. I did various things at the station, including working on the 6 and 10 news broadcasts.

Here's the beloved (to me at least) theme tune we used back then.

The One That I Want

I’m writing this while listening to the soundtrack to Star Trek III: The Search For Spock. I think that tells you a lot about where I’m coming from in this review.

Somehow, some way, lost in the midst of the burbling twitter stream, I began following Allison Winn Scotch. Her twitter presence combines a lot of amusing snarky stuff and interesting, insightful writing-life stuff. And then I found her blog, which focuses on the art and craft of writing.

Since I noticed that she was a New York Times bestselling novelist, I grabbed one of her novels from the library. Now, she writes what some might categorize as chick-lit, which is absolutely a category of fiction that I haven’t really experienced. Her new novel came out last week and a couple months ago she began holding contests to give away advance copies. Well, I managed to, um, not exactly win a contest, but in some other way tricked her into sending me a copy (a little more about that can be read here). So with those caveats, here’s a look at the book.

The One That I Want follows Tilly Farmer, a woman ten years or so out of high school in age but whose life still revolves, in many ways, around that exact same small town school. She works as the school’s somewhat ineffectual guidance counselor, helps put together the big musical production and also plans the annual prom – still the highlight of her year. She’s trying to get pregnant and, in her mind, lives the perfect life.

But then she runs into an old friend, one she really hasn’t associated with since middle school, and is somehow given a strange gift – the gift of clarity. Tilly begins to have visions, very precise visions, of her own future. And she doesn’t like what she sees.

In seemingly effortless prose, Scotch presents a capsule of a life, a very typical life, and the way we can all be tricked by our own preconceptions. Tilly desperately wants her life to be happy and fulfilling, so she has forced herself to believe that it is. Her visions, however, crack open the façade she’s built around herself and reveal the not-so-pretty truth – about herself, the way she treats others, the way others treat her.

“Imagine, if you can, that you are sixteen again.” So reads the opening sentence, and it neatly encapsulates Tilly’s life. In many ways, she IS still sixteen. She clings so hard to her little town, to her little school, to her little life, that she’s unable to allow herself to grow, to really mature. She wants the world to be a pretty prom picture without having to experience the discomfort that led to that pose.

By novel’s end, Tilly’s world shifts. She’s released the narrow parameters within which she’s maintained her family members, allowing them to be who they really are, and, in so doing, released herself to become a fuller person. She’s finally engaging with the world as it really is. And isn’ t that what we should all be doing?

This is an engaging and entertaining novel, great for, yes, reading at the beach. It’s comfortable and well-paced and just insightful enough to make you pause before leaping into the surf.

P.S. I am so dense that I did not realize that the title of the book was an allusion to the musical Grease until three days after I finished reading it.