It's a cold and windy morning, not to be confused with a dark and stormy night which is the opening line for a terrible novel written by Edward George Bulwer-Lytton. But I digress. Every other weekend my son comes over to visit. This is the other one. I'm thinking he stayed up late. Time marches on and I'm here tapping away at my keyboard. It's a nice keyboard that accompanies my iPad. Actually it didn't accompany my iPad, I had to buy it extra but it is a fine addition and makes typing so much easier that touching the screen which can careen about from vertical to horizontal at the switch of position. Yet again I digress.
Where was I? Oh. It's NaNoWriMo! Whoops. I wrote about that yesterday. Which reminds me, did Garth...dang it...Gabe have the money? Did Joe P. beat the living cr...uh, sorry, I do wonder about that though. Where in the world of my mind is the answer to that question? But I digress.
Now where was I? Oh yeah, it is a cold and blustery morning, not to be...I sneezed! It upset Robin and she jumped up overturning her bowl of food nuggets...I'm not sure how that happened...which I had to stop and pick up. So where was I?
He stared at the cauliflower ear approaching him. Joe smacked his left hand with a ham fist. The sound echoed off the brick walls at the alley's end. "So, you ain't got the money, eh Gabriel? Then I guess I have to muss you up some. The boss don't like I don't muss you up some if you ain't got the money. And you say you ain't got the money? Right?"
Sweat popped out on Gabe's forehead. He loosened his tie. "Listen Joe, I don't got it now but..."
"Uh uh. No excuses. No promises."
"But, I was going to say, I can get it and more but I gotta have some time."
"That's a laugh, Gabriel. Da boss done gave you two weeks 'cause he likes ya, but he likes scratch more."
"Scratch?"
"Yeah, sorry. I dropped into hoodlum parlance. Let's try it again. That's a laugh, Gabriel. Da boss done gave you extra time 'cause he likes ya, but he likes scra..., uh, money more."
"Oh. Yeah, I can see that, but you can't get scratch from a stone."
"What? you got scratched by a stone? What...? You mean those bricks in the wall I shoved you up against done scratched you?"
"Uh, no. I was just trying to get into character too. What I should have said was, I ain't got no money and you can't wring it out of a stone."
"You makin' fun of me, Gabriel? On account o' I got ringin' in da ears? Bein' in da ring for twelve years don't come witout a price. I been answering phones now for a couple a dem years when dey ain't ringin'. You know how hard it is to have to stop at every phone boot 'cause of that answering compulsion? Don' be makin' fun or I won' just muss you up. I'll buss you up.'
"No. No. I'm not... Oh, come on let's just start all over."
"Well, I don't know 'bout dat Gabriel. I'm a little confused now."
"Tell ya what Joe. Let's go get a cup a coffee and talk about the old days."
"I don't tink da boss would like..."
"Look, we're both trying to give the boss what he wants. Right?"
"Right, but..."
"No buts Joe. Let's go get a cuppa joe."
"Hey, don't be makin' fun..."
"What's a little fun between pals eh?"
With that they walked out of the alley and into Danny's.
"Two cups of coffee, Danny. I'm buyin'."
"Thought you don' got no money?" asked Joe clenching his fist. Something didn't go right here but he wasn't sure... Some coffee. "And a slice of apple pie there Danny. I'm a might peckish."
Uh, I think maybe I better leave those two guys to reminisce about the old days while I close up this entry. I guess my boy won't be getting here any time soon. Maybe I'll go read.
My Mind
This is my mind
Saturday, November 5, 2011
Friday, November 4, 2011
NaNoWriMo
I forgot! It's NaNoWriMo. National Novel Writing Month. It's the month in which all the wannabe writers and some actualbe writers crank out 50, 000 words in a cohesive storyline. It's a challenge! It is exciting! It's frustrating! It's a chance to prove to yourself that you can or cannot write a short novel in a month.
About 5 years ago I steadfastly clicked away on my keyboard every night to accomplish 50,000 words. Pounding away I pictured myself as a starving writer with a pot of coffee and a full ash tray just within reach. I'd sit back and push the worn brown fedora back on my forehead, then pick it up off the floor since my forehead recedes to the back of my pointy head. Looking back at the screen I'd grasp my chin between thumb and fore finger, slip my elbow to the desk and frown into hard thought as to how to go forward with the action swimming in front of my eyes. A moment would pass after which I'd stop rubbing my bearded face and reach for a Camel. Rotating my chair and fumbling with my Zippo I'd snap a flame alive and pull fire into the tobacco, click it shut, toss it onto the desktop and lean back exhaling a blue cloud overhead.
What would my character do now? I'd placed him in an alley with a palooka with a cauliflower
ear who was sent to collect the money owed on a bet. Another drag on the Camel as I brought my cup of piping hot joe to my mouth. I skirted a blue cloud across the top of the brown liquid then sucked in the scalding brew. Whoa! That hot brew spewed from my burning mouth, the cup dropped into my lap. I bounded from the swivel chair crashing it into the wall behind while screaming obscenities and slapping my lap saturated with boiling hot coffee.
After a cold compress and a change of clothes I returned to my typing without the answer. The palooka with the cauliflower ear was slowly approaching my hero. "Where's the money, Garth?" he asked pounding his fist into his left hand.
Well, hell! I'm worried about his predicament when I gave him a name like Garth. There would have to be a better name. OK. I have it.
The palooka with the cauliflower ear was menacing in his approach to the hero. "Where's the money Joe?"
No, no, no. It can't be Joe. Joe's so common and besides It's the menacing hulk who is already named Joe Palooka. Sheesh. Ok
Palooka who brandished a cauliflower ear was approaching Gabe menacingly. "Where's the money Gabe?"
Fooey. Let's start over. Can't have his name in the same sentence twice. Well technically it's two sentences but...
Ok.
His fedora rested heavily on his cauliflower ear. His bulk bore down on Gabe. He blocked out the street light backing him into the brick wall wet with that night's rainfall. His fist pounded his open left hand. "Where's the money, Gabriel?" His speech was slurred due to too many rights to the brain box.
So where is the money? I wondered. How the hell should I know? I thought. Another pot of coffee? No I don't think so. I learned my lesson. Another butt from the pack? I reached for the Zippo. No. It's time to think.
And this was my first night to write. Where would I go from there? I hadn't a clue. I still had 49, 432 words to go. Maybe I was rushing the story? If I were a real writer I'd probably know the answer.
So the month of November went. Each night, well almost every night, I would make a pot of coffee and sit myself in front of the computer without the first clue what I would add to the continuing story. Some nights 10 words would come. Others 8, 000 words would machine gun across the screen.
Did my story make sense? Not so much. Was it fun? I'll say. It was a terrific month, though no publisher saw fit to give me an advance on my next project. Aaah, so what...
It's NaNoWriMo this month. Enjoy.
About 5 years ago I steadfastly clicked away on my keyboard every night to accomplish 50,000 words. Pounding away I pictured myself as a starving writer with a pot of coffee and a full ash tray just within reach. I'd sit back and push the worn brown fedora back on my forehead, then pick it up off the floor since my forehead recedes to the back of my pointy head. Looking back at the screen I'd grasp my chin between thumb and fore finger, slip my elbow to the desk and frown into hard thought as to how to go forward with the action swimming in front of my eyes. A moment would pass after which I'd stop rubbing my bearded face and reach for a Camel. Rotating my chair and fumbling with my Zippo I'd snap a flame alive and pull fire into the tobacco, click it shut, toss it onto the desktop and lean back exhaling a blue cloud overhead.
What would my character do now? I'd placed him in an alley with a palooka with a cauliflower
ear who was sent to collect the money owed on a bet. Another drag on the Camel as I brought my cup of piping hot joe to my mouth. I skirted a blue cloud across the top of the brown liquid then sucked in the scalding brew. Whoa! That hot brew spewed from my burning mouth, the cup dropped into my lap. I bounded from the swivel chair crashing it into the wall behind while screaming obscenities and slapping my lap saturated with boiling hot coffee.
After a cold compress and a change of clothes I returned to my typing without the answer. The palooka with the cauliflower ear was slowly approaching my hero. "Where's the money, Garth?" he asked pounding his fist into his left hand.
Well, hell! I'm worried about his predicament when I gave him a name like Garth. There would have to be a better name. OK. I have it.
The palooka with the cauliflower ear was menacing in his approach to the hero. "Where's the money Joe?"
No, no, no. It can't be Joe. Joe's so common and besides It's the menacing hulk who is already named Joe Palooka. Sheesh. Ok
Palooka who brandished a cauliflower ear was approaching Gabe menacingly. "Where's the money Gabe?"
Fooey. Let's start over. Can't have his name in the same sentence twice. Well technically it's two sentences but...
Ok.
His fedora rested heavily on his cauliflower ear. His bulk bore down on Gabe. He blocked out the street light backing him into the brick wall wet with that night's rainfall. His fist pounded his open left hand. "Where's the money, Gabriel?" His speech was slurred due to too many rights to the brain box.
So where is the money? I wondered. How the hell should I know? I thought. Another pot of coffee? No I don't think so. I learned my lesson. Another butt from the pack? I reached for the Zippo. No. It's time to think.
And this was my first night to write. Where would I go from there? I hadn't a clue. I still had 49, 432 words to go. Maybe I was rushing the story? If I were a real writer I'd probably know the answer.
So the month of November went. Each night, well almost every night, I would make a pot of coffee and sit myself in front of the computer without the first clue what I would add to the continuing story. Some nights 10 words would come. Others 8, 000 words would machine gun across the screen.
Did my story make sense? Not so much. Was it fun? I'll say. It was a terrific month, though no publisher saw fit to give me an advance on my next project. Aaah, so what...
It's NaNoWriMo this month. Enjoy.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
"And bless the little cook..."
This is the month of Thanksgiving. A time of reflection. A month for memories of family come together for the celebration of life and its abundance.
I was a fortunate child who grew up surrounded by relatives young and old. I grew up with an abundance of cousins, aunts and uncles within in a 10 mile radius. For us Thanksgiving was not an ordeal it was a celebration. Our close proximity made it easy to gather under a single roof year after year to eat and drink and talk as if we had not seen one another for a decade or more.
The third Thursday of November was a holiday of warmth and closeness like no other. We may have seen each other just yesterday and yet this day was a sacred ritual embraced by all with smiles and greetings of cheer.
Starting around 11 AM the front door would open and in would come children bounding over the threshold followed by the smiles and cheerful hellos of the parents who carried their offering for the mile long table in the back room. The aroma of some warm and mouthwatering delicacy from the oven would waft over me as they passed by. We kids would be running, hootin' and hollerin' to beat the band until shushed by the grownups as they began to remove coats and hats. And then when the dust had settled the front door would open and another flock of kids would race over the threshold followed by parents and new fragrance being emitted through covered dishes.
Between one and two the house would be crowded with children overcoming the excitement of sharing stories of youthful enthusiasm amidst the drone of grownups conversing. When it was decided the last person in the family gathering had arrived and the plates and dishes were set along the extended table the time had come for everyone to quiet down as the blessing was said. My granddad as head of the extended family would stand framed in the doorway to the kitchen. He'd look out over the sea of family until quiet descended upon us and bow his head. He would speak to God as if He were before him thanking Him for the abundance He had provided this day, the family He had brought together under this roof with the chance to gather in His presence to share this meal. And with these words he would almost say Amen but hesitate just a second to add, "And bless the little cook." His blessing was the opening for all to gather around the table and spoon up from each dish a portion of the meats, vegetables, potatoes, sweet potatoes and breads lined up on table. Piling a plate, chatting all the while, took a bit of time picking and choosing until it was realized seconds and thirds trip to choose were always possible.
We'd find a place to sit, usually in front of the TV to catch up on one of the bowl games while stuffing turkey and dressing into our mouths. A cleaned plate pulled us into the line once again forming at the table. Another trip around choosing from the bounty. Another search for a seat to continue with the game and smacking our lips over the newly piled plate.
Then came the best part of the meal. Dessert. Not just one but what seemed to be hundreds. The center of the table was adorned with the Wonder of the tall whipped cream cake from the Meeting Street Piggly Wiggly. It was the Primo dessert offering that everyone sliced into. then the pies of pecan, pumpkin and shoofly variety sat awaiting knives. Beside them were the cakes which included fruitcake--the homemade variety that we would eat--along with pudding and ice cream churned that morning.
The day would be taken up with talking, eating, drinking and napping. The evening would see us all taking newly piled plates covered in tin foil to be carried home to eat as if any of us needed too.
It was a bountiful family tradition I miss since my grandparents passed away and we children grew up to live in far away places. In my memory they live on.
I was a fortunate child who grew up surrounded by relatives young and old. I grew up with an abundance of cousins, aunts and uncles within in a 10 mile radius. For us Thanksgiving was not an ordeal it was a celebration. Our close proximity made it easy to gather under a single roof year after year to eat and drink and talk as if we had not seen one another for a decade or more.
The third Thursday of November was a holiday of warmth and closeness like no other. We may have seen each other just yesterday and yet this day was a sacred ritual embraced by all with smiles and greetings of cheer.
Starting around 11 AM the front door would open and in would come children bounding over the threshold followed by the smiles and cheerful hellos of the parents who carried their offering for the mile long table in the back room. The aroma of some warm and mouthwatering delicacy from the oven would waft over me as they passed by. We kids would be running, hootin' and hollerin' to beat the band until shushed by the grownups as they began to remove coats and hats. And then when the dust had settled the front door would open and another flock of kids would race over the threshold followed by parents and new fragrance being emitted through covered dishes.
Between one and two the house would be crowded with children overcoming the excitement of sharing stories of youthful enthusiasm amidst the drone of grownups conversing. When it was decided the last person in the family gathering had arrived and the plates and dishes were set along the extended table the time had come for everyone to quiet down as the blessing was said. My granddad as head of the extended family would stand framed in the doorway to the kitchen. He'd look out over the sea of family until quiet descended upon us and bow his head. He would speak to God as if He were before him thanking Him for the abundance He had provided this day, the family He had brought together under this roof with the chance to gather in His presence to share this meal. And with these words he would almost say Amen but hesitate just a second to add, "And bless the little cook." His blessing was the opening for all to gather around the table and spoon up from each dish a portion of the meats, vegetables, potatoes, sweet potatoes and breads lined up on table. Piling a plate, chatting all the while, took a bit of time picking and choosing until it was realized seconds and thirds trip to choose were always possible.
We'd find a place to sit, usually in front of the TV to catch up on one of the bowl games while stuffing turkey and dressing into our mouths. A cleaned plate pulled us into the line once again forming at the table. Another trip around choosing from the bounty. Another search for a seat to continue with the game and smacking our lips over the newly piled plate.
Then came the best part of the meal. Dessert. Not just one but what seemed to be hundreds. The center of the table was adorned with the Wonder of the tall whipped cream cake from the Meeting Street Piggly Wiggly. It was the Primo dessert offering that everyone sliced into. then the pies of pecan, pumpkin and shoofly variety sat awaiting knives. Beside them were the cakes which included fruitcake--the homemade variety that we would eat--along with pudding and ice cream churned that morning.
The day would be taken up with talking, eating, drinking and napping. The evening would see us all taking newly piled plates covered in tin foil to be carried home to eat as if any of us needed too.
It was a bountiful family tradition I miss since my grandparents passed away and we children grew up to live in far away places. In my memory they live on.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Where are the Trick or Treaters?
Halloween has skipped past again. The spooks and goblins failed to knock on this door for the 5th year in a row. It could be because no kids live around here. WEll, that isn't true since new families have moved in recently. They have kids, but they never showed up. One of the houses seemed more festive that night so I figure they had a Halloween party and decided against knocking on doors.
I don't think Nakita's standing on the couch enveloping the entire expanse of the picture window looking like a humongous Werewolf had any deterrent value whatsoever. That broad head and the furry triangular ears near the top of the window couldn't possibly frighten little sticky fingered treat seekers. Not even the reddish eyes above ivory teeth slippery with drool should have altered their little dreams of sugary highs. The hulking body outlined in the living room light proppped on size 9 feet atop the window ledge shouldn't project the harbinger of fear upon tiny tykes wielding bags with suckers and licorice sticks, should it?
Naah, I'm sure they just settled on enjoying a party at the house down the street.
Nakita is playng with her food again. Let me go take it away from her. Children shouldn't squeal so loudly when it's play time.
I don't think Nakita's standing on the couch enveloping the entire expanse of the picture window looking like a humongous Werewolf had any deterrent value whatsoever. That broad head and the furry triangular ears near the top of the window couldn't possibly frighten little sticky fingered treat seekers. Not even the reddish eyes above ivory teeth slippery with drool should have altered their little dreams of sugary highs. The hulking body outlined in the living room light proppped on size 9 feet atop the window ledge shouldn't project the harbinger of fear upon tiny tykes wielding bags with suckers and licorice sticks, should it?
Naah, I'm sure they just settled on enjoying a party at the house down the street.
Nakita is playng with her food again. Let me go take it away from her. Children shouldn't squeal so loudly when it's play time.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
early morning
I don't know why some mornings come earlier than others. This one began around 5:30. I used to blame it on Robin who sleeps on the bed each night but that is unfair. This particular day I woke her as I do many a morning. There was a time, long ago when I could sleep til noon or even 2 in the afternoon. Of course that was in the teen years. I often wonder if those years were just a dream, but then I have less time to dream due to early awakenings.
These days my eyes open in the cover of darkness. Once those babies are open it's mandatory to get up. Lingering in bed is not an option. My body just won't stand for it. Perhaps it's the habit of rising year after year to prepare for work. It was my routine to get up immediately upon the alarm clanging away on the night stand. No snooze button here. Never was a snooze button. I awoke, I sat upright and threw my legs over the edge of the bed. My cohorts always spoke of the snooze button that they hammered with the heel of their hands in a 5 minute ritual for 30 or more minutes.
I don't know if it was a sense of duty, knowing I had to work that day, or simply a biological thing. I lean more to duty which was drilled into me. The job calls. It's a duty to answer the call. When married it was most vital to earn the wage to keep the family afloat. After divorce it was to keep two families afloat. When the kids were on their own it was a deeply ingrained habit. One I did not lose obviously.
In retirement it would be loverly to sleep in. Or to lie awake as the sun comes up. Yet here I am up and stumbling around looking for a second cup of coffee to bring around consciousness. I never said I was awake fully. I'm up. Like a zombie but without the taste for bbrraaiinsss.....
OK. Time for that secomd cuppa brown.
These days my eyes open in the cover of darkness. Once those babies are open it's mandatory to get up. Lingering in bed is not an option. My body just won't stand for it. Perhaps it's the habit of rising year after year to prepare for work. It was my routine to get up immediately upon the alarm clanging away on the night stand. No snooze button here. Never was a snooze button. I awoke, I sat upright and threw my legs over the edge of the bed. My cohorts always spoke of the snooze button that they hammered with the heel of their hands in a 5 minute ritual for 30 or more minutes.
I don't know if it was a sense of duty, knowing I had to work that day, or simply a biological thing. I lean more to duty which was drilled into me. The job calls. It's a duty to answer the call. When married it was most vital to earn the wage to keep the family afloat. After divorce it was to keep two families afloat. When the kids were on their own it was a deeply ingrained habit. One I did not lose obviously.
In retirement it would be loverly to sleep in. Or to lie awake as the sun comes up. Yet here I am up and stumbling around looking for a second cup of coffee to bring around consciousness. I never said I was awake fully. I'm up. Like a zombie but without the taste for bbrraaiinsss.....
OK. Time for that secomd cuppa brown.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Westerns Eastern
I have always been a fan of the Western. Movies or novels and short stories no matter, the western told the tales that provided our heroes in my youth. The early heroes included Roy Rogers, Hopalong Cassidy and Gene Autry along with Lash Larue and Johnny Mack Brown. They all road across the screen filling a young boy's heart with eagerness to uphold their code of the West. Upright, strong, honest men who exemplified the best of America. The big screen brought us the James gang along with the Daltons. They were the good bad guys who fought for the the forgotten following the Civil War. The Civil War was not a part of our young minds, just the idea of robbing the rich and helping the poor, an idea as old as legend itself. Our heroes stood for ideals we absorbed without thought. Then came the stars who interpreted other legends out of America's past. James Stewart, Kirk Douglas, Robert MItchum and Burt Lancaster. The hats were gradually fading from black and white to gray, yet we continued to root for our heroes without thought to the alteration from the simplicity of black and white. The television took up the parading of heroes with new stories on Rawhide, Wagon Train, Bonanza, Gunsmoke, and Have Gun Will Travel being only a small number. We revelled in the stories of horse and gun. We were settling the West, wrangling steers, and righting wrongs. Indians stood in the way and we annihilated them. Rustlers keeping the beef from market? We shot 'em dead. Bad guys shootin' up towns? We Gunsmoked 'em to die in the street.
Our heroes upheld right whether or not the law upheld it. We fought righteous battles through our screen heroes.
With time the Western began to provide the anti hero. The time of the Western began to fade. Our heroes were fast disappearing into a miasma of right-wrong gray. There were no heroes we were told. Only men. With all there faults they were only men. Personally I wanted the old days and those guardians of the righteous path. Then the Western gave way to movies and books awash with dark choices made by "just" men.
Then in the 70's there came to the screen a movie that made the choice of good and evil simple again. It was the Western in dress up. STAR WARS crept across the big screen in a long interminable ship in deep space sliding quietly after a tiny ship hightailing it away. It was the wild west once again. Heroes were eagerly hailed once more. We could yell HOORAY for the good guys openly without the need to question the motive. This was black and white in color roaring with action.
Since a need of heroes is practially a necessity they had to be re-invented and, they were, with a huge bang. Yes, the big screen and the little screen are furnishing men and women who fight for right. This is all well and good, however, it has a hollow quality for me. Since Star Wars there have been so many more Western Dress-up dramas and all of them come from the confines of the comic book. Don't get me wrong comic books, or graphic novels as they are now called, are fine.
With the Westerns we had a basis in reality to hang the stories on. In the comic book, that basis of reality is gone. Super powers, flight, X-ray vision, morphing into animals remove me from the real life right and wrong. These days the hero must be manufactured through the creation of minds struggling to re-establish the idol for all of us. We need someone to look
up to and that person is not available in day to day life. Yes, America has heroes in those who work hard in their lives to keep our country from falling apart. Our soldiers who fight a war are, unfortunately, unsung heroes fighting an unpopular war. Every day heroes unsung by all of us. We would rather have the hollow hero on screen and on paper.
So where am I going with this? I don't know. I simply wanted to introduce another blog that I like which is called the Western Fictioneers. And it all begins with the fact that I like Westerns which are based on real times in our real past providing heroes that are more real than those of the present because the West was a foundation of our society. So, are we the Hollow Men T.S. Elliot wrote about? I wonder at times.
Our heroes upheld right whether or not the law upheld it. We fought righteous battles through our screen heroes.
With time the Western began to provide the anti hero. The time of the Western began to fade. Our heroes were fast disappearing into a miasma of right-wrong gray. There were no heroes we were told. Only men. With all there faults they were only men. Personally I wanted the old days and those guardians of the righteous path. Then the Western gave way to movies and books awash with dark choices made by "just" men.
Then in the 70's there came to the screen a movie that made the choice of good and evil simple again. It was the Western in dress up. STAR WARS crept across the big screen in a long interminable ship in deep space sliding quietly after a tiny ship hightailing it away. It was the wild west once again. Heroes were eagerly hailed once more. We could yell HOORAY for the good guys openly without the need to question the motive. This was black and white in color roaring with action.
Since a need of heroes is practially a necessity they had to be re-invented and, they were, with a huge bang. Yes, the big screen and the little screen are furnishing men and women who fight for right. This is all well and good, however, it has a hollow quality for me. Since Star Wars there have been so many more Western Dress-up dramas and all of them come from the confines of the comic book. Don't get me wrong comic books, or graphic novels as they are now called, are fine.
With the Westerns we had a basis in reality to hang the stories on. In the comic book, that basis of reality is gone. Super powers, flight, X-ray vision, morphing into animals remove me from the real life right and wrong. These days the hero must be manufactured through the creation of minds struggling to re-establish the idol for all of us. We need someone to look
up to and that person is not available in day to day life. Yes, America has heroes in those who work hard in their lives to keep our country from falling apart. Our soldiers who fight a war are, unfortunately, unsung heroes fighting an unpopular war. Every day heroes unsung by all of us. We would rather have the hollow hero on screen and on paper.
So where am I going with this? I don't know. I simply wanted to introduce another blog that I like which is called the Western Fictioneers. And it all begins with the fact that I like Westerns which are based on real times in our real past providing heroes that are more real than those of the present because the West was a foundation of our society. So, are we the Hollow Men T.S. Elliot wrote about? I wonder at times.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
adding a blog
I read a few blogs on a daily basis. One of these is Rough Edges. James Reasoner gives a daily paragraph or two about writing and writers. He has penned numerous novels and is always at work on some story soon to be published. He provides good info on books and movies that he enjoys along with links to other authors he shares with his readership. If you have an interest in the days of the pulp story you will find his blog a wealth of knowlege. If you enjoy Westerns he is the man to read. If science fiction is your thing you will appreciate his suggestions. I have a soft spot for pulp stories and old movies especially Westerns. Rough Edges scratches that particular itch. I recommend it highly.
Right now I am sitting in the dark typing onto a glow screen. A loud noise woke me. I thought something had fallen from a shelf. I jumped up to look but nothing was out of place. Perhaps I was dreaming but it would be a shared dream because Robin was alert and staring in the same direction when I leapt from bed to the slight switch. It was odd. Now I am typing with a dull headache that says I need more sleep. Unfortunately when I awake I am unable to lie in bed. I remember the teen years when I could sleep until 12 or 2 in the afternoon without any problem. Perhaps I was more limber then or in need of sleep to grow to my full height of 5'5". Perhaps if I had slept until 5 or 6 I might have slipped up to 5"6" but it didn't happen.
I will be adding more blogs to Maybe I'm Wrong as time progresses. Since today is going to have a few extra hours added I may be adding a few more entries. Maybe I'll expound on the fear chickens foster when they gather around the back of the outhouse. NO! IOt's way too early and way to dark to resurrect that fear. I have to go turn on all the lights. Later.
Right now I am sitting in the dark typing onto a glow screen. A loud noise woke me. I thought something had fallen from a shelf. I jumped up to look but nothing was out of place. Perhaps I was dreaming but it would be a shared dream because Robin was alert and staring in the same direction when I leapt from bed to the slight switch. It was odd. Now I am typing with a dull headache that says I need more sleep. Unfortunately when I awake I am unable to lie in bed. I remember the teen years when I could sleep until 12 or 2 in the afternoon without any problem. Perhaps I was more limber then or in need of sleep to grow to my full height of 5'5". Perhaps if I had slept until 5 or 6 I might have slipped up to 5"6" but it didn't happen.
I will be adding more blogs to Maybe I'm Wrong as time progresses. Since today is going to have a few extra hours added I may be adding a few more entries. Maybe I'll expound on the fear chickens foster when they gather around the back of the outhouse. NO! IOt's way too early and way to dark to resurrect that fear. I have to go turn on all the lights. Later.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)