How to be Unfortunately Named

I'm driving down the street towards work and I see that a brand new apartment complex for 'senior living' has just been named. The new sign was out front and I immediately thought, "Whoa, didn't anyone run this past a let's-make-sure-this-isn't-stupid committee?" Who in their right mind names a retirement home "Shepherd's Garden"? Is it just me or isn't that a place where the Good Shepherd goes to plant his people in final rest? Ya gotta wonder sometimes.

The Firmness of Our Beliefs

SCENE: Dentist's office. PATIENT is laying in chair, slightly nervous but not showing it. DENTIST swivels around after consulting x-rays.

DENTIST: Well, we could save the wisdom tooth but it would require a root canal and those run fifteen hundred dollars. Now, it's entirely up to you. If you want to keep your teeth I understand. We'll do whatever you want if that's what you want.

PATIENT: You know, it's always been my goal in life-- (raises arms and smacks a fist into his palm to emphasize his words) to keep my wisdom teeth.

DENTIST: That's a worthy goal. We can do that.

PATIENT: However, what was that you said about fifteen hundred dollars?

DENTIST: (laughs; mimics the hand smacking) How quickly our goals can change!

An Unnatural Act

No, I'm not talking about some of the more obscure and outdated laws of South Carolina. I'm talking about getting one of my wisdom teeth pulled yesterday. My dentist referred to it as an 'unnatural act' and that your body doesn't want things that are supposed to stay in to be taken out. Judging from the involuntary and quite primal reaction I had to the event, I believe her.

In my writing I've often used the term 'bone crunching' to describe sounds of combat. I now know what that sound is... from up close. I'm laying back in the chair thinking about how I really wanted to keep my wisdom teeth all my life; sort of a personal goal, if you will. They start tugging, pushing, and twisting. I can hear the soft, crackly sounds of ligaments tearing away. Then there's this bone crunching crack and the dentist's hands jerk a little. My arms recoil and I shudder. I can feel the adrenaline flush into my system. The dentist pats me on the shoulder and says that's it. I was minus one wisdom tooth.

It was one bizarre experience that I'm certain I don't want to repeat.

When Worlds Collide

Well, the Inescapable Black Hole that is Facebook is slowly dragging me under the event horizon. There is no denying that Facebook is a technological jump of quantum significance and it is bringing the modern world along for the ride. It is allowing people to connect with each other in ways never possible before and, like Frankenstein's errant lab experiment, I'm not sure we know exactly where it's headed.

I'm not saying this is a bad thing. (Shoot, the good doctor mentioned above managed to unite the citizenry in a righteous cause and increase market share for burning pitch.) I'm just saying that in days gone by, one was able to leave the past in the past if that was one's inclination. Now, thanks to another technology called a 'camera', the combination of modern advancements and antiquated record keeping are colliding like doomed protons in Geneva. The result could be catastrophic destruction on a global scale or it could be a few red faced explanations to current significant others.

Only time will tell.

Joy and Dismay in .03 Seconds

It is tradition on Valentine's day around here that there is See's chocolate and helium filled balloons. In fact, it has become such a tradition that Daughter Number One has been talking about it all week, wondering what kind of balloon her daddy is going to get her. So when I showed up with a pink heart balloon she beamed with a radiant joy that could melt a Yeti's scowl. (Son Number Three got a monkey 'be mine' balloon but that's not important right now.) She showed it off to the rest of the family, drew little hearts and flowers on it, and took it everywhere with her for the rest of the morning. Then I'm upstairs watching the Olympics and I hear her little voice say, "I'm going to go outside with it!" Yes, the astute of you know what's about to happen and so did I.

I hear the door open. I hear laughter so joyous you could see the skip in her step with your mind's eye. Then, exactly .03 seconds later, I hear a wailing scream of the most heart wrenching magnitude in all of human history. It is long and drawn out and soul crushing, followed by heaving sobs and the plaintive words of ultimate loss, "My balloon!" The door closes. There is crying and more mournful wailing. It gets slowly louder as she comes up the stairs. I meet her on the landing and she falls into my arms. "I lost your balloon," she says between sobs. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry, Daddy, I lost your balloon. I tied it twice but it slipped off. I'm sorry, Daddy, I'm so sorry."

I pat her head and rock her back and forth a little. I tell her I love her, I'll always love her, and I'll never not love her.

Then we go to the dollar store and get another balloon.

Idiot Savant

All of us have special talents. All of us have God given gifts that set us apart from fellow mortals and make us stand out like a green M&M in a bowl of reds. Mine happens to be Star Wars trivia. Wife Number One and Only got me the Star Wars Trivial Pursuit game for Christmas. She knew, rightly so as it turns out, that the game would never be played because I would win in one turn. So now I amuse myself with my unerring ability to pick any card at random and correctly answer six out of six questions. The one or two times that I only answered five correctly it was clearly the card's fault for not being clear enough so I promptly rephrased the question and described the scene in which it happens.

It may not be the gift of tongues or faith healing or whatever, but it makes me special.

Early Review on Love and Revolution

Wife Number One and Only asked to read Love and Revolution so I emailed her a copy. (From across the room, too. How sad.) Anyway she read it today and her first comment was, "Are your stories always so bloody?"

I kind of scrunched up my eyebrows in a puzzled sort of look. Perhaps, just perhaps, I've become a little de-sensitized to the violence I write about. Perhaps the common person is not quite up to speed on the typical fare that heroic fantasy brings you. I thought back on the action sequences, the fire, the knives, the multiple painful deaths. My response: "That one was tame..."

A Bit More on Love and Revolution

Love and Revolution is off on the submission circuit. (There's nothing like a deadline to get your creative juices boiling.) One of the things I really like about this story is the hero I've created. For years now my protagonists have been serious and somber and, you know, heavy. I've been wanting to create a hero that's funnier and more flippant yet still heroic. A few attempts here and there have just been failures because I couldn't capture the right mood or the plot developed around the hero hasn't lent itself to that kind of interaction. This time, however, I think I've nailed it. The hero is named Izan and he's a North African Berber trying to rescue a princess from the clutches of the murderous Roman pigs who've taken over their land. Young and rakish, Izan is mostly light-hearted throughout the tale, only becoming dark and murderous himself when it's most convenient. As for the princess, well, she doesn't start out as enamored of him as he is of her. That makes for good fun right there.

Love and Revolution

I've got to crow a bit about a new first for me. I started a story two days ago and finished it this morning in a creative rush that surprised me a bit. It's called "Love and Revolution" and it's sitting at 4600 words. The final target is five thousand and I'm sure when I put the final bits of flesh on the bones of it I'll have something worthwhile. It's got a different sort of hero than I usually write but he's been kicking around inside me for a while now. Other than the general idea, this story went from inspiration to completion in less that 60 hours. I think that's a record for me but since I wasn't particularly keeping track, I'm not sure. Anyhow, it's fun to chalk up a victory now and then.

The Shortest Short Story

I ran across this some time ago but have been thinking more about it lately. Ernest Hemingway is credited with writing the shortest short story ever, with just six words to sum it all up. It's an amazing piece, and legend has it that he wrote it simply to win a bar bet. Interestingly, not only is it the shortest short story, it's also the saddest.

For Sale: Baby shoes. Never worn.

North! Or Be Eaten

For this month's CSFF tour, we're highlighting the book North! Or Be Eaten by Andrew Peterson. It's part of a series of books called The Wingfeather Saga and you should check them both out. Since I've noticed most people have a distinct aversion to being eaten, the book promises to be thrilling and chilling. Find someone in the target YA audience and get them this book.

Here's the rest of the tour:
Brandon Barr
Justin Boyer
Amy Browning
CSFF Blog Tour
Stacey Dale
April Erwin
Todd Michael Greene
Ryan Heart
Timothy Hicks
Becky Jesse
Cris Jesse
Jason Joyner
Julie
Carol Keen
Krystine Kercher
Dawn King
Rebecca LuElla Miller
New Authors Fellowship
Nissa
Donita K. Paul
Crista Richey
Chawna Schroeder
Andrea Schultz
James Somers
Steve and Andrew
Rachel Starr Thomson
Robert Treskillard
Fred Warren
Jason Waguespac
Phyllis Wheeler
Elizabeth Williams
KM Wilsher

Rage Done Right

Rape, murder, treachery, incest, cannibalism, blood... Ah, those wacky Greeks. Last night I took Wife Number One and Only to see Electra by the Seattle Shakespeare Company. It's part of their expanded season that includes a classical play by someone other than The Bard. Seattle Shakes continues to impress, racking up another winner here that you really should go see.

There were many highlights which all combined to produce one pretty intense experience. Doors open, walk through a vestibule to get to the theatre, and there in an alcove of plain white sits Electra with her back to us watching black and white home movies of her father playing with them as children. Eerie, soulful, and introductory of the mood we're about to be immersed in, the small room is like a padded cell and Electra wears simple white clothing, not bright and gay but dingy and worn.

The stage is grey and harsh, starkly lit by cheap bare bulbs. It's then that you notice a lack of color and vibrancy anywhere. When Darragh Kennan enters as Orestes you again see that everyone is in grey and white. As the story unfolds, you start to realize that color is being saved until the end. And with a play like this, you know the color will be red.

It isn't long before Marya Sea Kaminski as Electra reaches out and grabs you with mourning that seems so raw, you feel you shouldn't be looking at it. Her performance then turns into the rage of a daughter bereft of her father and forced to live with the killers. She surges into a screaming, spittle flying rage that continues to crash into you like an angry sea pounding at a rocky shore.

Add to that the emotional performance of Susannah Millonzi as Chrysothemis, Electra's sister. She plays the part as a simple woman, trodden down and abused yet still hanging on to a thread of innocent cheer like a beaten puppy. She provides the single most emotional moment of the evening when told that the beloved brother she's been waiting for to return has actually died. She begins screaming out "No! No! No! No! NO!" while stamping her feet and trying not to believe it. It's the kind of moment that reaches inside you and pulls tears out of places you don't like to visit.

Then we reach the part of the play where a lot of red is seen. Electra's murdering mother dies backstage at the hands (and axe) of Orestes. Orestes and his accomplice return center stage smeared with so much blood it's dripping off them. A little later the body is revealed and the blood was poured all over the very nice actress who played a very mean mother. But of course we know: Too much is never enough. The murdering new husband shows up and is taken backstage to be axed. Blood begins flowing down the previously white curtain behind the doorway and Electra's revenge is complete.

This show, my friends, is rage done right.

The Maybey Story

A couple of years ago I started a story called "Claws From the Grave of Delta Maybey." Other than a vague idea of setting, probably inspired by the lonely and dark Halloween night around me, I had no idea what to do with it. Well, since I'm between writing projects at the moment I decided to read it over and see what I could make of it. I still like the mood and writing style that I developed and I've added a few hundred more words to it. A full idea has coalesced in my mind and although it smacks of a deal with the devil story, which by all accounts is overdone, I think I can turn it into something that will be cool to read. Also, it should end up being shorter than my latest projects, which tend to become novella in size. It is a departure from the sword and sorcery I had settled into over the last five years or so and that is a good thing. While I am fond of saying 'too much is never enough', the reality is that I know I need to expand a bit. Staying still means you're going backward.

Thunder Canyon Misses the Top Spot

Well, fourteenth place in the Preditors & Editors Readers Poll isn't bad, considering it's my first appearance there and all. Of course, with all the tied vote tallies it's more like 23rd or something but as we all know: it's nice just to be nominated.