Dorkman-Related

Not that it matters much over here at the Realm, but Ken was good enough to (re-)lay-out our sister-blog, The Dorkman Cometh, as we're hoping to get more author visits and spread the word about our fine, ingenious and socially-relevant novel on a larger scale than it has been.

Also, today and tomorrow we will have been at ALLA, the Alabama Librarians Association conference held here at the Von Braun Civic Center in Huntsville, AL. In case you passed by, Ken was the one with the "DORK" shirt!!!

Joseph's Lament

Traveled too far for the girl to end up like this,
bent in pain, tears mixed with sweat, and totally spent.
The cries of the child, this child not mine, in such darkness,
echoing against the stone walls, rising above the lows and bleats.
Cries that rend my soul.

For a dream did I stake this union, sure that I had heard from the Most High.
Yet, the house filled above, while she and I outcast with beast,
lying in straw and dung, searching desperately for cloths to cover the infant,
speak to the lucidity of my vision.
I am undone.

The arguing in halls overhead stirs the ass beside us.
Handing her the strips I find, she wraps the babe.
Sets him in the swine trough after I clear the refuse.
Footsteps descend from the stairs above, and slurred voices rise.
Who now, at this time of night?

She pulls her garment across her body just as they step into the lower room.
The stench betrays these men as herders, nomads.
I go to stop them when one grasps my arm.
Another trods past and falls to the flooring before the boy.
More follow, speaking of the sign.

Fit near rage, I break from the man's grip,
but then I stop.
These sheepherders, these outcasts, they groan praises.
Praises to the child. To this King. Praises to the Lord God of Hosts.
In this moment I am struck.
Who am I to do this?

Stream of Consciousness

Times of wonder, those Summer, days gone by. Children climbing, hiding on the bluffs. The sounds of squirrels and rabbits, fleeing from footsteps of running boys. Sweet breezes that blow through hair and into eyes, and the twilight fades and the darkness sets in. The resilience of youth is but a facade and can be seen through like Saran wrap. The chickens always come to roost, so they say and nevermore true than now. And later. Life trods on like the hull of the battleship still gliding yet deeper through the seas neverminding the torpedo that ruptured its aft. Sparrows still sing. The harvest moon yet rises. Puffy clouds still find their merry paths below azure skies. All the regrets reflected in the tears of one man's eye forgetting not the passion and devotion and hopes and teaching and some of the prayers. Where to begin, where to end, and to perservere in between, so it is and so am I.

Tori Stellar by Jerry Seltzer

On the SCBWI list serve, one of the writers posted this link to an illustrator/artist's (Jerry Seltzer's) site for his Tori Stellar, Children's Book Author comic strip. From what I gather, the cartoons are cute and humorous bits of inspiration, advice, and experience for chidren's authors and aspiring writers.

Funny, and I can really identify with a couple of them (and no, I'm not talking about saying the S-word... althooo-ooough...). At the site, there are only a couple other comic strips, however, you can sign up for a free weekly newsletter, go to the newsletter archives, or e-mail Jerry with ideas.If the comic strips tickle your funnybones, check out the site.

The Snowflake Method

Plotting is hard.

There I've said it.

In the past, Rich has been known to give me undue credit for my plot development role in our writing projects. I think this is because I feel very strongly about strong plots. Not to diminish the other key aspects of writing (e.g. we are also adamant proponents of excellent characterization), but to me plot is the story.

In the writing workshop that we do at schools, we define plot as "How the main character gets what he/she wants". Having an interesting premise is great, but without the compelling plot with its harrowing obstacles, climax, and resolution, you're just wasting your time.

But plotting is hard. Maybe I mentioned that before.

That's why I was intrigued when I ran across the reference and link to Randy Ingermanson's snowflake method at Joanna's blog: Just a Lyric in a Children's Rhyme. I've read books on plotting, but the snowflake method put things in simpler terms and used an analogy, which dumbed it down so that even I could follow along easily.

If you're one of our resident writers, I recommend that you check out the Snowflake Method. You never snow, it might be just the thing you needed.

Gospel in 10

Came across this post from the Mockingbird blog while I was perusing down at The Boars Head. It's an exercise in summarizing what you believe, if you believe on Christ:

Can you summarize the gospel in 10 words or less?

When Ken and I first started seriously writing together with one of our goals being publication, we learned pretty quickly that we'd need to be able to summarize our works -- whether an essay, a short story, or a novel -- in one sentence, for a variety of reasons (query letters, interested editors/agents thru correspondence or at conferences, description for prospective readers, etc.). Although I'd not thought about it in these terms, I should be able to utilize this practice with my faith in Christ as well. Here's my attempt:

God came, lived, was crucified and resurrected for sinners.

Obviously, as the author of the original post stated, any 10 words or less explanation would have to be more fully detailed to define (as best we can) the nature of Salvation and sin, the whys and hows of God's love, etc. Nonetheless, I think this is a fantastic exercise.

In the comments of a non-related post (Saturday is for Answering Questions) and site, Michael Spencer, the Internet Monk, answered a similar question. He was asked:

What is your understanding of the gospel? In five sentences…

His answer, which just so happened to be 10 words:

God created.
Man sins.
Jesus saves.
We believe.
God reigns.

Beautiful. I think I like his better than mine.

Anyone else want to give it a try?

Playwright! Playwrong?

How well-versed are Realm denizens in the field of play reading? Here's a better question, aside from William Shakespeare, Arthur Miller, and Tennessee Williams - the three playwrights covered in high school (at least for me) - how many plays written by other writers have you read?

On wikipedia, I pulled this exhaustive list of notable playwrights. While I consider myself at least an average reader, I'd say I might know maybe ten percent of this list if I'm lucky, and most of those are from their book writing rather than their plays. Here are some recognizable names that I probably could have named as playwrights:

David Mamet
W.H. Auden
George Bernard Shaw
Euripedes
Ira Levin
Oscar Wilde

but, if pressed, I'm not sure I could name more than a couple plays: Pygmalion, Salome, The Importance of Being Earnest, Deathtrap, Glengarry Glen Ross (the latter trio only because of movies I saw) that any of them wrote.

And here's a fun one I would never have guessed:

Kathie Lee Gifford (who knew???!!!)

and an even better one I never knew:

Wallace Shawn

Mmmmmkay, embarrassingly enough, maybe that 10% I noted above is really more like 2 or 3%. I should probably read a few more plays just to say I did. Chances are, though, since books are what I enjoy writing, I'll probably stick with those. Nonetheless, I think writers, in general, should probably be a little more versed than me in the reading of plays. Probably poetry as well.

Checkout the wikilist of playwrights I linked in the above second paragraph. Here's a chance to impress. Let us know about your play reading and knowledge of playwrights. Pssssst - if you 've read any plays other than Shakespeare, Williams, or Miller, you've already impressed me.

Why Do You Write?

My reply earlier to Wanda under the You Know What's Cool? post poses a question we've (Ken and I) asked and been asked, whether by members of our writer's critique group, readers of our work (yes, believe it or not, they're out there), librarians, teachers, etc. It's an age-old question, to be sure, but it's never really that old.

Why do you write?

or, similarly

For whom do you write?

At one time, I thought the answer to the first question was: because I have to. That's not really the case, though, if I want to be honest. For others, maybe, but not me. Time and life shot holes through the sack in which I held that answer. My answer to the second question is: it depends.

The answers are going to differ for individuals, because we're just that, and in my opinion, there's not a wrong answer. There's only a right answer for you.

Right now, as far as blogging, I'm writing -- so far as I can tell -- for four people: Doug, Wanda, Kevin, and me. And, right now, that's good enough for me. Will it be tomorrow? Probably? Next week? Still probably. Two months from now... unless I'm really feeling the therapeutic vibe, I'm guessing not. I'm hoping for a wider audience, although I'm sure it'll still be a somewhat intimate and esoteric group. What that says about me, I'm not sure. One thing I am sure about is that blogging isn't just writing. Writing's a part of it, but in general, it seems more a sharing, at least for me. And then, the quick pat-on-the-back that even an average-to-above-average post, to generous crowds like the ones that have always inhabited the Realm, might elicit should never be underestimated. One of my tragic flaws is liking to be liked. Heck, you don't really even have to like me. Just blow a little smoke up around my hind parts, and I'm all smiles. Ah, now the secret's out. That's why I blog.

With novel writing, especially when I work with Ken, it's different. A lot different. For that, I write because I love the story we're telling, and that's really the only reason. When you invest the time and your self into a story, the story's the thing. And you -- and if you write with a partner, then the both of you -- have to be loving your creation, be more than satisfied with it, and throw yourself fully into it with only a passing regard at most as to how others are going to be struck by it. Plus, the story has a life of its own that is tough to describe, but it still has to be worked, molded, remolded over and over by its author(s) all the while weaving its own tapestry. It's work. It really is. It's the kind of work I want to do, though. And when it's complete and I love it, while I hope others will read and like the work, that really doesn't matter so much. Crown of the Summerhavens and Dorkman taught me that. With the literally dozens of people that have read the Crown manuscript and the hundreds that have read Dorkman, I know we always hoped (and still hope) for more. However, none of that matters in the end. The only thing that matters is that Ken and I love those works with a passion and think they're the goods. With The Legend Hunters (The Eyes of Nimrod) stuff were working on now, it's the same deal. So why do I write? That's why I write.

What about you? I'm wagering that everyone that comes to this site, whether past commenter or lurker (do we even have those here? methinks not), is likely a writer in some regard. So tell us. Why do you write? And for whom?

Nano-Nano

One of our sometimes commenters here in the Realm, Wanda, reminded us last night about one of her passions: writing an entire novel in only one month.

Turns out November is that month. So, you aspiring writers still have some time to dust off that Great American Novel that's been rattling around in your brain, do a little research, and head on over to the NaNoWriMo website for more info.

BTW, Wanda's looking for someone to jog her memory about two women missionaries who were kidnapped in the Middle East of couple of years ago. So, sound off if you can point her to some info for her research.

This is Dork from Ork, signing off.

Oh, What A Tangled Web We Weave

The new Dorkman website is up!!! You can find it at http://www.dorkmancometh.com/.

Let me know what you think, but be gentle.

You know how your arrows wound me.

A link to a new Dorkman-centered blog and message board can also be found there. As well as an email address for us.

A Pearce & Story writing website is also in the works.

Our intent is to migrate discussion on those topics to the appropriate web space so as not to overwhelm the Realm with nothing but P&S, P&S, P&S. Or else some of you will start to get P&S'ed.

Stop by our other sites and by all means INVITE YOUR FRIENDS.

Thanks for bearing with us in this busy time and look for some new general interest topics and maybe some guest posters here in the Realm.

Peace to all Realm dwellers.

Books?? Festival?? We're there!!

This Labor Day weekend (1-3 September) Rich and I will be in Atlanta for the inaugural AJC Decatur Book Festival.

There will be food and beverages, live music, cooking demonstrations, fireworks... oh yeah, and books. But obviously best of all real live authors... like us!!

I know it makes you all goose pimply just thinking about it.

But hey, Dorkman will be hot off the presses, and we'll have some give-aways, too.

So, if you're in the Atlanta area (and if you're not, c'mon it's Labor weekend for crying out loud-- make special arrangements) drop by the OnStage Publishing booth to see us.

Check out the link above for more details and directions.

Tell Your Friends and Family and See You There!!

The Dorkman Cometh

Just a few more days until our novel, Dorkman, is released by OnStage Publishing. Stay tuned for more information and the address for the new Dorkman website!!

Here's a sneak peek at the cover art and the back-of-the-book blurb:


The last thing Cole Erickson needs right now is a distraction.

Improving his swing before baseball season and steeling his nerve to talk to the ravishing Ashley Knutson are all that matters. Unfortunately, he’s just made the cataclysmic mistake of speaking to a stranger-than-strange kid that everyone at Jackson Middle School calls:

Dorkman.

Spawned from a naturalistic humanitarian mother, Gordon "Dorkman" Dorfmueller lives in a bug- and cat-infested house, dresses like something a thrift store vomited, and acts like he just arrived from one of the comic book worlds he spends all of his time drawing. As far as Cole is concerned, Dorkman is a complete waste of space.

But Dorkman begins to follow him everywhere: his classes... home... even the bathroom in his quest to become Cole’s new best friend. Nothing seems to stop him. And Cole fears that his popularity and his chances with Ashley have just been flushed. Things couldn’t be worse.

That is, until Cole’s friends decide to take matters into their own hands and subject Dorkman to a series of escalating pranks that ultimately humiliate Gordon and change Cole's life forever.

Beware! The Dorkman cometh!

Poetic License

As my wife was presented with a rose for Mother's Day, I was reminded of my favorite poem:

A Red, Red Rose

O MY Luve 's like a red, red rose
That 's newly sprung in June:
O my Luve 's like the melodie
That's sweetly play'd in tune!

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I:
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry:

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun;
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only Luve,
And fare thee weel a while!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho' it were ten thousand mile.
-- Robert Burns, 1759-1796

Here's to the feelings that putting one right word after another can create.

Perhaps I'm the only adherent of Romanticism in the group or perhaps you have a favorite that causes you to wax rhapsodic as well.

Haiku, Haiku Very Much

They called me the King
Now many think that I’m gone
But the Rock has Rolled!!

The Business Side of Writing

A couple of posts ago, I joked about looking forward to doing taxes. Truth is, I hate it as I'm sure you're all aware. Not only that, but the whole financial side of living -- keeping the checkbook, where to invest, monthly budgeting, saving, how much to put in the 401K -- well, if someone would offer to do that for me in exchange for the joy of pulling all my teeth out, I'd gladly take the deal. My wife, on the other hand, is much more focused in that area and, in fact, in all the PRACTICAL areas of living. Unfortunately, her bandwidth can only take so much of the things you HAVE TO DO to function in this American world, so the finances have fallen to me. Oh joy. But that's not what this post is about.

Getting to it: it's not tough to extrapolate my "love" for the practical, or business, side of life to the practical, or business, side of writing. I derive all kinds of pleasure from making up stories, writing my way out of troublesome spots (when I have the talent to do so - when I don't, well, I have Ken), tossing ideas back and forth, brainstorming new ideas, and even, to a certain extent, the re-writing of parts of stories that need to be strengthened or cut down for the benefit of the novel or short story. However, when it comes to the business side of it to try to get yourself published (i.e. the query letters, synopses, cover letters, but most of all the actual sending them out and keeping track of the documents), it's like dragging my chin over asphault to try to get myself to want to do it. Of course, it has to be done, or else your work just sits in a drawer never to see the light of day. But boy do I despise it. Why? Because it takes away from the part of writing that gets my juices flowing (just like working on finances at home takes away time you could be spending with your children, etc.). Ten times out of ten, and a thousand times out of a thousand, I'd rather be working on a story than trying to compose a professional-sounding query letter -- a letter that many editors and agents will use to judge your writing right off the bat and if it ain't up to snuff, then they toss you out with no more than a brief rejection letter where they probably spell your name wrong - oh the irony. (Digressing) It's so important, yet I have so much trouble with the want-to. And whereas when in novel-writing when I work myself into a difficult spot, where Ken and I can bounce ideas off each other, Ken's love is also for the story-telling and not for the business side. Now, he's more knowledgeable about that side than I am, but he's no more apt to work that side of our writing than me.

Often, I joke with Ken that we need a Pearce & Story secretary who will work for free and handle the business side for us. Well, we'd still have to do the actual writing of the story content part of the query and cover letters, and also we'd have to write the synopses, but in a perfect world, if we had someone who could just take these and alter them for the different requirements of each publishing house/editor/agent, what a lifted burden that would be. All that said, why joke about it anymore?

Soooooooo... if any of you guys/gals know of a person who loves working lots and lots of hours for free for a couple of hard-arsed guys who give no benefits and only require a ton of work, we're certainly taking applications. Just think, you could get in on the ground level of something that's going to be big... REAL BIG... someday. Special consideration goes to prospective employees who can read minds. Extra special consideration goes to prospects that never make mechanical writing mistakes and can type 120,000,000 words a minute. And think of it, if we did ever get really, really, really big, we might even give a raise up to minimum wage.

Ask yourselves, what other writers out there are offering such an opportunity? That's right. No one but Pearce & Story. That's why we're the best going today.

[Update to that last sentence: Well, it's one of the multitude of reasons, let's just say. But any way you slice it, we're still the best. And working on becoming LEGENDARY. So sign up now!!!]

Mr. Originality

One morning, not so very long ago, a newborn baby, full of expectation, bounded into the world. He was the sixth baby born at Memorial Hospital that day, and he had his mother's eyes and his father's nose. His parents named him John, John Smith, but not out of a desire to protect his identity. He was simply named after his Grandpa John, his mother's father.

John grew to be a likeable boy. Never what one would call popular, but he always had friends, or at least friendly acquaintances. In truth, most of his playmates were really his older brother's friends, but Fillip always allowed John to tag along, and John admired him for it.

John was a better-than-average student, but never known for his brains. He was also a fair athlete and even made an all-star team once. The same team Fillip had made a couple of years before.

When John was eight, he joined the Scouts. And by the time he was sixteen, he wore the badge of an Eagle Scout, just like his dad. Everyone was very proud. His Aunt Hildie assured him that she wasn’t surprised for that sort of work ethic ran in the family.

Of course, it was this same work ethic that led John to toil in his father's hardware store each weekend while most other guys his age were off dating girls. “John’s a late bloomer," his mother proudly affirmed, "just like his Uncle Steve." For his efforts, John's dad decided to groom him to take over the family business one day. Fillip had obtained a scholarship to State to study architecture – he’d be the first in the family to make it to college.

John lived a relatively happy life, I suppose. I don't mean to give the impression that he didn't. He’d experienced no major tragedies in his young life. However, as he reached the end of his school days a little twinge of emptiness--barely discernable-- somewhere in the back of his mind, began to tug at him. At first, John didn't know what to make of it, but as he drove his white sedan to the hardware store after the graduation ceremonies, the feeling grew stronger, and forced John to reflect on it. Maybe that's normal. Maybe when you reach one of life's mile markers it’s what you're supposed to do... reflect.

As John sat in the parking lot... he looked back over his life and realized that none of his achievements, his special moments... or even his personality felt like they were his alone. They all seemed to belong to others more than they belonged to him. He had spent his first eighteen years as a follower, and this left him discontented.

Surely, he had been created for something more… something astonishing, something inspiring, something indelible, or, at the very least, noteworthy. There must be a trail left to blaze, a frontier left to explore, a niche left to carve, a legacy to leave, which could be distinctly his. But this was to be his silent, elusive passion.

John fell in love with Lisa, an attractive girl from his mother's hometown, only eleven miles away. After courting her briefly, he proposed marriage, and Lisa accepted, despite the fact that she had received an identical ring in a previous engagement. Thrilled, John raced home with his new fiancée only to find a celebration already underway for Fillip, who had become engaged earlier that same evening.

Lisa wished to be married in her hometown church where, of course, John's parents and grandparents had also been married. And naturally, the only date available on the church’s wedding calendar was, you guessed it, his parents' anniversary.

The years came and went, but John’s obsession remained. Always he felt like he was on the brink of something special, something uniquely his own, and he could taste it. Once, John had an idea for an invention, a timesaving yard implement, but then his father died, and John was boxed into assuming the entire responsibility for the hardware store. A year later, a farmer patented a similar tool and retired quite comfortably to a thousand-acre ranch in Texas, although John always refused to stock the tool in his store.

Lisa gave John two boys of his own (who, by the way, never worked a day in the hardware store). Inspired by his love for these boys, John wrote a fantastic children's story for them. Unfortunately, his manuscript never saw the light of day, because an eerily similar novel penned by a best-selling author found its way to bookshelves that very month.

The pattern continued. John would cast his soul into one endeavor or another only to find that someone else had just accomplished his goal. To use a cliche, John was always “a day late and a dollar short”. Snake-bitten, each time he came up short, a little piece of him died. However, please do not misunderstand me to say that John was a failure, far from it.

He was a devoted, faithful husband, a loving father, and a steadfast influence in his church and his community. And he never lost hope, but continued to reach for the brass ring, to grasp hold of that something, that amazing, spectacular something that would forever mark him as a man of note. Or as he saw it, a man period.

He is gone now. John Smith died with his mother's failing eyes and his father's crooked, fleshy nose. He lived to what many would call a “ripe-old age”. He wasn't snuffed out in the prime of his life, and he didn't live to see a hundred. Of course, many others have died at the same age, an age that I'm sure John would think quite ordinary. His body rests in the family cemetery next to Lisa's... and adjacent to the plots where his parents are buried.

This may seem like a story about a man who was born unremarkably, who lived unremarkably, who died unremarkably, and who never amounted to much. And in many ways, that’s all true. But I'm often struck by just how remarkable it was for John to live his whole life so unoriginally, without a single story to call his own… except this one.

Perhaps I'm not as objective as I could be, because John Smith was my dad. I'll always be sad for him, knowing how desperately he wanted something more from his life, but I believe he's now gone to a better place, a place where he is a genuine, bona fide original and cherished as such. And my bet is that there will never be another John Smith. Never be another so fabulously unoriginal as he... unless, of course, it is me.

Originality

Something or Nothing # 3

(Warning: This isn't a typical post or a typical Something or Nothing. It's long. Very long. So if you're short on time, either come back later or dismiss this "post" like the first boy or girl you dumped for being a total jerk. It's three chapters -- rough draft version stuff -- of a YA (Young Adult) story I started (and stopped) three years or so ago. It's working title was Blindsided. The reason I stopped is because I was told, and it became sort of apparent to me, that it was too autobiographical for a fictional work, and some of the things that "really happened" aren't believeable in a work of fiction. Paradox, huh? Well, here's three chapters -- remember it was a first draft and it hadn't even really hit the Story part of Pearce & Story, so remember that as you read with a critical eye (that'll be my only disclaimer this time) -- of the eight I had written, and you can decide for yourself whether it's something I should some day finish or not. I realize maybe three chapters is a hard number to judge by, but do your best. Acquisition Editors do it by far less most of the time. Oh yeah, and the storyline basically is boy likes girl, gets together with girl of dreams, but because of Dad's job change to different state (with no warning and only a month lead time), rug is pulled out from his wonder-life and boy must move from his love - however, boy stays until basketball season is done, of course, as team is playing for State. A HUGE THANK YOU to anyone who takes the time to read this!!! You are loved! So with no further ado, here are the first three chapters of Blindsided, and you can tell me if the story is "Something" or "Nothing".)

One

The truth of the matter boiled down to this: I had found the one. Seen her, anyway. Or at least glimpsed her. For a year and a half, I had never really noticed (don’t ask me how), but in the last month, scales had dropped from my eyes. And there she was, in every single daydream… the night ones too. At first, I thought the feelings would pass, but they kept growing stronger the more I saw her. In the halls. Gym class. On her way to volleyball after school. It didn’t matter that we had never spoken actual words to each other. Our eyes had met twice now, and I knew…

…which provided most of the reason for why I had driven my current girlfriend, Lindsey, here to Palmer Park, where we sat with our legs dangling over a red rock cliff side. The ride had been quiet, and for nearly half an hour, we simply watched the day end. At last, I felt her gaze, but when her hand slid over to mine, I pulled away.

“Okay, what’s wrong?”

Long, looooooong seconds passed.

Although I expected the question, the reality of it plowed into me like a locomotive. My pat answer escaped into the breeze that blew back Lindsey’s long, blonde hair. Her twinkling eyes caught me off-guard, and I stuttered, knowing two things. One, the smile was about to leave those baby blues, and two, she had no idea what was coming. That made what I was about to say much harder.

“Lindsey,” I started and paused, focusing on the orange-red sunset blazing over Pikes Peak, “I’m not quite sure how to say this.”

Concern touched her features, and she again reached for me. When I withdrew this time, she knew something was up. “Bryan? What is it?”

“I can’t go on like this.”

“Like what?”

Words failed me. Breaking up hurt almost as much as being on the receiving end. Finally, I blurted out, “I need space!” which was partly true. Lindsey had been my first serious girlfriend, the first girl I ever kissed. At first, the every moment of the day togetherness intensified what we had thought was “falling in love.” But as the newness wore off, the other people and parts of my life called me back. Not so for Lindsey, who demanded my attention all of our free time. And when that’s all there was, the whole relationship thing had gradually lost its luster.

“Space?” Lindsey laughed, which left me wondering. “Is that all this is about?” This time she managed to grab my hand and nestled close to me. “Let’s go back home, then. We can find some space together downstairs in the basement.” She smiled again with her cheerleading good looks.

“No,” I said, scooting a little away, “I’m serious. What I mean is that we need some space from each other.”

Her lips formed into a mock pout. “Fine. What is it that you want? Just tell me, and I’ll make it happen.”

A month ago, her answer would have been a godsend. Now though, I just felt numb. Bowing my head, I forced out, “I want it over.” The sentence tasted bitter coming out, and Lindsey’s smile vanished as she released my hand.

“What?” was all she could get out before tears welled in her eyes and began raining down her cheeks.

Struggling, I faced her. “Lindsey, you are so great. You’re fun. You’re amazing in every way. But I don’t feel anything anymore. Nothing.”

This time, she turned away until she stopped crying. Wiping her cheeks, she looked up at me. “I think… I think… Why don’t we give it three days? Bryan, this is probably just a phase. We go together, you and me. You can’t really want less of me in your life. We are each other’s lives! We’ve been going out over a half a year. Let’s not throw it away without giving us a chance. I love you, and you love me; you know that. We’d die without each other.”

I searched myself, trying to think through our past and all the great times. Even through Lindsey’s typical smothering way, some of what she said made sense. Still, I could feel nothing, so I shook my head.

Again, she asked, “Three days?” My minute of silence must have supplied her answer, because I heard, “Just take me home,” before the crying started again.
#
Mrs. Murray met us, as she swept her porch, waving excitedly with a grin that swallowed her head. I loved Lindsey’s mom and knew her for the sharing and caring person she was, but she really missed the signs on this one. Lindsey opened the car door, slammed it, and wordlessly slipped past her mother into the open front door of the house, which slammed as well. When Mrs. Murray signaled for me to roll down my window, I thought about just driving off, but I owed her more than that. I leaned over and let down the window on the passenger side as she hurried down the porch steps to my car.

“Bryan, I fixed fried chicken, your favorite.” Her head, with its bun-piled hair, poked in through the open window, and her smile grew even larger, if that were possible.

“Mrs. Murray…”

“And I bought a watermelon, just for you. I know how you love them.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Murray, not tonight.”

“Oh come on, Bryan. I even baked a cherry cobbler. Mr. Murray’s in there waiting on us to eat.”

Behind her, I saw Lindsey’s father appear in the doorway. “Lillian,” he called. From his expression, I could tell he had seen the state of his daughter. “Lillian,” he restated, stronger.

“I really need to go, Mrs. Murray. Really.”

Mrs. Murray remained oblivious. “No, no. You just come in and call your parents. I’m sure they won’t mind.” She stood up and gestured to her door.

“I’m sorry. I am.” I accelerated the car around the semi-circle drive. As I pulled out into the street, I saw Mrs. Murray, dress hiked up with one hand and broom waving in the other, trailing, shouting for me to stop. That picture froze in my mind for a surreal instant. After a deep breath, I drove forward, bound for the gym. I needed to shoot.
#
When I got home later on, I heard my mom’s voice in the kitchen and could tell she was on the phone.

“Yes… yes… okay. Yes, here he is right now,” she said as she saw me enter the kitchen. Her face tensed when she looked at me, and I saw that something was wrong. “Thank you so much for calling. I’ll speak with him, I assure you. Yes, goodbye.” Slam!

“What’s going on, Mom?”

Her face contorted in anger, which was directed straight my way. “What have you done?”

“Mom, what are you talking about?”

“I just got off the phone with Mrs. Murray…”

“What?”

“That’s right, mister. Her daughter, your girlfriend, has been locked in her room crying for the past two hours because of whatever it was you said to her. And look at you! You come rambling in dressed in your basketball clothes like nothing’s the matter. What’s wrong with you?”

“What are you doing talking to Mrs. Murray? When did you two become phone buddies? This is none of your business.” Outraged, I spun out the door.

“Don’t you walk out on me, buster.” I stopped, stewing, ready to erupt. This had become some kind of night. “What did you say to her? You didn’t hit her, did you?”

Despite my anger, I nearly laughed at her outlandish suggestion. “Are you my mother? Do you know me at all?”

“I’m beginning to wonder.”

“No, Mom, I did not hit her. We broke up, that’s all. We just broke up.” For once, my mom stood speechless. I dropped my duffle bag at the foot of the couch and tossed the basketball I held into a recliner. “I need to shower. Plus, I have homework, so I’ll be in my room tonight. I’m not hungry; Jason can have whatever you fixed for me.”

I escaped to the bathroom, turned on the shower, and began to undress until the door burst open. “When did you stop liking Lindsey?”

“Mom!” Down to my skivvies, I grabbed a towel and wrapped it around my waist. “Please. This can wait.”

“Just tell me. Why haven’t you said anything? I thought everything was great between you two. Now, you’ve left her with a broken heart.”

I had absolutely no desire to discuss the particulars with her at this point, but since we usually maintained a pretty open relationship, I told her what I could. “It wasn’t great. It wasn’t good. It wasn’t bad either. It just… wasn’t. Not anymore.” Not knowing what more to say about it, I shooed her out of the rapidly steaming bathroom and locked the door. As I stepped into the shower, she pounded on the door. I ignored it but couldn’t stop her question.

“Now what are you going to do for homecoming?”

Two

Three days later, Lindsey sashayed arm-in-arm around school with Cliff Ragsdale, the starting power forward on our basketball team. Broken heart, huh? Even for the least broken of broken hearts, that was pretty quick healing.

“Wow! That was fast!” I heard as the two “newlyloves” strolled by. With my face buried in my locker, I waited until I knew they had to have traveled safely down the hall before I peered out. Kate Richey, my friend and next door neighbor for the past seven years, stared after the pair with a mouth so open I could have slid a basketball into it. She took off her glasses and pretended to clean them with strands of her stringy hair.

“Go ahead. Rub it in.”

“And Cliff Ragsdale? You cannot be liking that!”

Flashing my best warning-glance, I grabbed a textbook and threw the locker door closed. “You know, other than the fact she chose that clown, I really couldn’t care less.”

Kate giggled. “Yes, I noticed your lack of concern when you practically force-fit your whole body into your locker as they walked by. Could you have been any more obvious?”

Embarrassed but hoping to recover, I smiled it off and whined, “Well, I just need her to know how much I miss her and can’t live without her and how I just want her back so much so we could be together every single second of every day and every ni… ouch!”

Her spiral notebook crashed across the side of my head. “Oh, shut up, Bryan!” she laughed. Just as we reached Trig class, she suddenly got serious and asked, “So what does that mean for this weekend?”

I shrugged. Her question pertained to the 100% Corps, of which Lindsey was a member. So were Kate and I. The club had just been started up this year by one of our classmate’s moms, a lady named Mrs. McDonough. The membership consisted of a set of selected interdenominational church-going teens from our school, and its goal was to identify and take on social problems in our community – mainly helping the poor in various ways. However rife with good intentions, with the members being all high school kids, usually the bi-weekly meetings dealt more with personal problems than societal ills. Which suited Mrs. McDonough and the rest of us just fine.

“I hadn’t thought about it. I guess I’m going.”

“If I know Lindsey,” Kate said with a smirk creasing across her face as the class bell rang, “she’ll be there too. This’ll be one meeting I wouldn’t miss for anything.”
#
“You got called up to varsity at the end of last year, right Renehan?” Bart Stubbings, the starting quarterback on our forever-sorry football program, shoveled a mound of pasta a la carbonasty into his mouth as he awaited my reply. Even he – just before homecoming, no less – already longed for the merciful finish of football season for the greener pastures of basketball.

Unlike most, our school prided itself in its grandiose basketball achievements – twice State Champs and three times State Runners-up – but we had missed the State playoffs the last two years and the natives were grumbling. Word had it, though, that this year one of the bus transfers from the southside really had some serious game. I still hadn’t seen the guy and was beginning to doubt his existence because only our regulars from last year had attended the “unofficial” official practices that Coach Grayson held three times a week before school.

“Yeah, he did,” Ted Ellerby, another footballer, answered for me. “Got some minutes, too. Think you’ll be starting this year?”

Fortune had cast an impish grin in my direction this lunchtime sitting me at a table with the starting backfield from our gridiron squad. Class had let out early, and I hoped to see some friends come through the door at any moment to rescue me.

“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “Belser’s a senior, and he’s got a great three. I figure he’s a shoo-in at the two. But we really don’t have a point guard right now.”

“Oh yeah we do!” broke in Stubbings. “I saw him. Kid’s only a freshman, but he can flat out ball. We’ve definitely got a point.”

“Then, there’s your answer,” I shrugged.

“Come on, Renehan, Belser’s soft as they co…” Ellerby began.

A low, sharp whistle from Stubbings cut him off. The quarterback’s eyes motioned to a set of lunchroom doors. “Check that out. Breck…” and he whistled again, this time in appreciation.

AJ Breckman cruised through the door like a fashion model. Star of the girl’s volleyball team and indisputably the most “untouchable” girl in school, Breck strutted into the room like she owned it. No one questioned her place at the top of the school’s pecking order of quality females. Cheerleaders, dancers, poets, debaters, and prom queens bowed in her wake. And, no doubt, whatever “it” was, she definitely had more than her share and had probably stolen some from a few others, too.

Despite Breck’s unmistakable aura, my eyes and heartbeat stopped on the friend who followed at her side. There she was! Hailey Grace! Forcing myself to stare down at the table and only sneak looks, my heart only beat again after they passed.

“Dog!” groaned Phillip Drudge, the other fellow at our table, once the girls moved safely out of earshot. “I hear she’s dating some guy at CSU.”

Stubbings slung his head from following Breck’s illustrious trail. “No, man. She’s just been up to some sorority parties. That’s all. I don’t think there’s a man alive that could handle that.”

“I’d sure like to try,” sighed Ellerby, and his two backfield mates hummed in agreement. Then, he gazed back up. “What about Hailey? She’d work in a pinch.”

My ears buzzed while I fiddled with my fork through the cafeteria’s pasta. Just hearing her name thrown around by these guys frazzled me, but I feigned unconcern as best I could.

The smile that grew over Stubbing’s face appalled me. “Now, H.G., she’s a different story altogether. She lives down in the southwest. You know how them girls are. They’re easy, man! Anyway, I saw her at Bircham’s party last weekend. She spent most of the time in the kitchen with Gary’s older brother. The two of them left early.” He raised his eyebrows twice, conveying a deeper meaning.

Standing up and feeling sick, I picked up my tray and hurried it to the nearest trashcan.

“Take it easy, Renehan,” Stubbings called.

I faced him. “Yeah, easy.”

Three

Like tremors before an avalanche, feelings of dread whisked through my thoughts over and over as the weekend approached. Unable to concentrate, I passed in and out of my classes by rote. My friends must have seen the black cloud that hung over my head because hardly anyone spoke to me. At home, my mother informed me that I wasn’t myself. What did she want? With the number of times Lindsey’s name and the Homecoming Dance spilled out of her mouth, I avoided contact as much as possible.

In reality, the Lindsey hurdle scared me less than facing a dozen of my friends – friends that I had opened up to in the past – in the 100% Corps with our breakup being the fresh topic. And Lindsey already dating Ragsdale helped matters none. Like buzzards circling a carcass, our club would tear into this feast du jour with relish. At least I could be there to defend myself.

Of course, maybe I was blowing everything out of proportion. Maybe my teenage friends would kindly spare both Lindsey’s and my feelings and keep the matter to themselves. Maybe.
#
I definitely should have prepared myself better.

When I walked in the McDonough rec room ten minutes late for the meeting, I wedged a seat on the floor between Kate Richey and Bert Nowlin. My eyes locked briefly with Lindsey’s and then diverted. Mrs. McDonough had been speaking when I entered, but she stopped as, in unison, the whole group with the exception of Kate got up and moved to Lindsey’s side of the room. I could feel Kate tense up beside me, waiting for my reaction.

With all the attention directed at me, I wanted to cringe with everything inside me or, better yet, run. Pride bubbled up to keep me afloat as my neck burned with an inner rage I hoped no one could see. Scanning the group, I could tell for some of them, this was just a joke. Others, however, appeared altogether serious. Finally, I shrugged and asked, “So this is how it’s going to be, huh?”

Sarah Douglas, the only other cheerleader in the corps, spoke up, “We just wanted you to have your space.”

Even I cracked up at the comment, which I thought at first would break the tension. Unfortunately, I thought wrong. Sarah wasn’t smiling at all.

“Well, I appreciate that,” I said, hoping to diffuse the situation. I looked back toward Mrs. McDonough. “I apologize for being late, Mrs. Mc-D. What were you saying?”

“Ooooh,” mocked Sarah, “what is it? Little baby can’t go on like this?”

Hearing my own words used against me infuriated me enough to look at Lindsey and say, “Did you have to share it with everyone?”

Mistake.

Angry tears set in her eyes. “It was a girl, wasn’t it? You cheated one me, didn’t you?”

The question took me totally off guard. “A what? No… I…” Stuttering and trying to stop, I belted out, “Lindsey, you’re the one who hooked up with Ragsdale in no time flat? How long had you two been eyeing each other?” The hypocrisy oozed in my skin with each word I spat out.

“You know that’s not true.”

She was right. Whatever else Lindsey was – needy, possessive, demanding – one thing she was not was disloyal. I had never seen her even look at another guy while we dated. Still, I refused to admit that before the group. In no way did I want her accusation spinning back to me.

“Bryan, you’re such a jerk.” This sentiment came from Molly Yates, standing beside Lindsey.

“No, a jerk still has feelings,” added Sarah, “and Bryan can’t feel anything anymore.”

“Didn’t Shelley break up with you at Palmer Park?” one of the guys fired at me. “Is that where you do all your breaking up?”

“Okay, that’s enough!” Mrs. McDonough’s voice echoed throughout the room.

“Yeah,” agreed Sarah, flashing a mad glance at me, “we’ve all had enough of him.”

“Sarah… enough!”

I felt Kate’s hand pat me on the shoulder and heard her whisper, “Do you want to go?” Gritting, I shook my head and listened to Mrs. McDonough.

“…and what I was saying before Bryan came in was that Tiffany isn’t going to be able to make the meetings anytime soon.” Tiffany was Mrs. McDonough’s daughter. “We’ve actually known this for some time, and we informed the school a while ago… it’s just been a question of when we wanted to tell other people… when she wanted to tell other people… and now we feel the time is right.” Taking a deep, deep breath before she continued, she finally told us, “Tiffany was diagnosed with leukemia a month ago…”

And suddenly all my problems seemed trite.
#
“So all that really happened at your Cliques Anonymous meeting?” Rob Tanksley asked me as he caught a ball I threw him and shot. The net snapped as the ball spun through. I tossed him another, and this time he clanked it off the rim. “Man, I feel bad for Tiffany. I’d been wondering where the heck she’s been. She’s one of the few that are alright around here.

“Now the Lindsey part… that’s just hilarious.” He lifted up another perfect jump shot. “And you’ve had it coming for a while now. I told you from the beginning that this would happen.” I continued tossing him balls and listening as my friend counseled on. “You know as well as I do that cheerleaders are going to protect their own. And once Sarah knows…” Another shot laced the net. “…your name is just going to be mud for a while. That’s obviously why people have been avoiding you. You pissed off the wrong girl.”

“Sarah?” I asked.

“No, Lindsey. Sarah’s just one of the extensions.

“But here’s the thing I want to know…” he said as he caught my pass. Instead of shooting, though, he held the ball on his hip and stared at me.

“What?”

“Was she right?”

“Who?”

“Lindsey.”

“What are you talking about, Tank?”

“I want to know if she was right. Is there another girl?” We stared at each other for long moments, but I said nothing. “I thought so,” he concluded. “Who is it?”

Walking up to him, I stole the basketball and dribbled in for a lay-up. The ball bounced on the floor after falling through the hoop, and I watched it until it stopped rolling. Then, I turned to Rob, who still waited for my reply. “You’re going to think I’m an idiot.”

“I already think that.”

“You’re very humorous.” I paused. “See, it’s just that I don’t really know her – and you do. And she probably has no idea I even exist. Well, she might… we’ve looked at each other before. I don’t know.”

“Renehan, who – is – it?”

Swallowing, I coughed as I voiced, “Hailey. Hailey Grace.”

A huge grin broke across Rob’s face as his eyes flew open wide. “Really? Hailey? I wouldn’t have guessed that in a hundred years. I really didn’t even know you knew her. Of her.”

“Why not? She’s gorgeous.”

“Yeah, she’s definitely that, but the red hair…”

“Are you crazy? I love that about her.”

Rob laughed. “Man, you are smitten.”

“So are you going to help me out, Tank?”

He nodded with a pleased cat-like grin. “I’ll let her know you exist. See if maybe she’s noticed you.” He laughed again. “Hailey Grace! Bryan Renehan, you dog you.”

“Try to be discreet.”

“I’ll be at least as discreet as your friends Lindsey and Sarah… but you need to forget about all that now and get me that ball. We got tryouts tomorrow. You ready?”

Quote Me on This

Here is a nice little site for quotes from famous authors. I've listed some of the ones I enjoyed the most below. Any quips of mine are listed parenthetically in red italics.

"There are two kinds of writer: those that make you think, and those that make you wonder."
- Brian Aldiss

"Rejection slips, or form letters, however tactfully phrased, are lacerations of the soul, if not quite inventions of the devil - but there is no way around them."
- Isaac Asimov (don't you just love IA?)

"If you write one story, it may be bad; if you write a hundred, you have the odds in your favor."
- Edgar Rice Burroughs (no truer words...)

"The reason 99% of all stories written are not bought by editors is very simple. Editors never buy manuscripts that are left on the closet shelf at home."
- John Campbell

"I believe more in the scissors than I do in the pencil."
- Truman Capote (if only I believed)

"Most of the basic material a writer works with is acquired before the age of fifteen."
- Willa Cather

"I've always believed in writing without a collaborator, because when two people are writing the same book, each believes he gets all the worries and only half the royalties."
- Agatha Christie (Thank you, Agatha. We appreciate your faith in us. Love, Pearce & Story)

"Never throw up on an editor."
- Ellen Datlow (of all the advice, this is probably the best I've read)

"Get it down. Take chances. It may be bad, but it's the only way you can do anything really good."
- William Faulkner

"Half of being smart is knowing what you're dumb at."
- David Gerrold

"Half my life is an act of revision."
- John Irving (I know the feeling)

"Honest criticism is hard to take, particularly from a relative, a friend, an acquaintance, or a stranger."
- Franklin Jones (that about sums it up as long as he includes dead people)

"The unread story is not a story; it is little black marks on wood pulp. The reader, reading it, makes it live: a live thing, a story."
- Ursula K. Le Guin

"Great is the art of beginning, but greater is the art of ending."
- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (which is great for the reader but oh so unfortunate for the writer)

"We do not write because we want to; we write because we have to."
- Somerset Maugham (think I've heard this one before)

"If you can tell stories, create characters, devise incidents, and have sincerity and passion, it doesn't matter a damn how you write."
- Somerset Maugham (Somerset has some good quotes, I must say)

"There's no such thing as writer's block. That was invented by people in California who couldn't write."
- Terry Pratchett (TP is hilarious)

"Writing is an occupation in which you have to keep proving your talent to those who have none."
- Jules Renard (hopefully no one notices me slipping this one in here)

"Engrave this in your brain: EVERY WRITER GETS REJECTED. You will be no different."
- John Scalzi (good to know, better to believe)

"Like everyone else, I am going to die. But the words--the words live on for as long as there are readers to see them, audiences to hear them. It is immortality by proxy. It is not really a bad deal, all things considered."
- J. Michael Straczynski (y'know, J. Michael Straczynski is writing the Amazing Spider-Man comic these days)

"The test of any good fiction is that you should care something for the characters; the good to succeed, the bad to fail. The trouble with most fiction is that you want them all to land in hell, together, as quickly as possible."
- Mark Twain (boy, he had a way with words)

"No one can write decently who is distrustful of the reader's intelligence or whose attitude is patronizing."
- E. B. White

You can read a lot of other quotes at the site if you have the time. Hope you enjoyed some of these. And one day, you're going to find Ken Story's name after quotes like these -- mark my words!!!

Writing

The Scarcest Resource

Playing off Ken's Alton Gansky post, I thought this comment by Jack Cavanaugh was very insightful and totally true of writing:

The swiftness with which time passes while writing can be scary at times too. When I'm writing, time flashes by, and with it go huge portions of my life. Which means the more I write, the more swiftly I'm racing to my death. The tradeoff, hopefully, is leaving behind a legacy of stories that will continue to live long after I'm gone. This isn't the kind of thing aspiring writers want to hear, but it comes with the territory.

Boy, no kidding. I'll be flowing in a chapter, or worse - struggling with one, and what had been ten o'clock p.m. has turned to three thirty a.m., and I'll have to be getting up for work in three and a half hours. Jack's dead to right on the trade-off as well, and that's hard to fathom for non-published writers (or even soon-to-be published writers like us). The desire to have a body of work at the end of a life to at least give the illusion that all the time spent was worth the opportunity costs... well, that's why writers write. It's also achieved by only a rare few.

If I got anything out of my BSEC degree at Auburn University, the notion of opportunity costs probably topped the list. All the other valuable, invaluable, or not-so-valuable things I could be doing with my time instead of what I'm choosing to do. For me, at least at this point where I don't have writing deadlines over my head - sometimes I do have job deadlines - the way I live with the trade is sacrificing sleep (and sometimes health), mostly, for writing. The time after work with my family, and especially with my children, is too valuable for me to simply disappear into my study to write. Sometimes sacrificing lunches or a couple hours on the weekend away from the family, I'll live with, but other than that, it's got to be sleep. Not to mention, my best writing hours tend to be between 9:00 p.m. to 1:00 a.m.

More important than just to my writing or to any one thing that anyone does is the point I'm trying to get to, which is: TIME is really our most precious resource. When you think about it, we have money, material items, health, faith, hope, and love, friends, etc., but without time, none of it means anything. In fact, when it comes right down to it, time is all that we have in this fallen world. And we live on borrowed time. I realize I'm not breaking any new ground here - people have figured this out long before any of it dawned on me, but I feel impelled to write it. Probably because I hijack so much of my own by wasting it. Maybe someone else can benefit from my folly.

Our choices and everything we do must fit into the time that we have. Whether we love, hate, give, provide, play, argue, debate, work, enjoy, mourn, hurt, pursue passions (good and bad), relax, travel, achieve, educate, ail -- whatever we do, it all has to be within the time we have. Best then, if we use what we have wisely. And since each person has a different make-up, I believe that using time wisely is going to be different for each person.

If we had started our blog early enough, one of Ken's news oddities of the week may have been about a kid in Korea who went to a gaming center and played for 52 straight hours, even through calls from his mom, until he up and died from a heart attack after the 52nd hour. I've got an X-Box at home, and I work with people with similar gaming devices. This guy was sort of a joke at our work. How could a person be so stupid? Well, truth to tell, I'm probably not really that different. I could easily see myself getting caught up - actually I do get caught up in these basically pointless games when playing them either with my kids or by myself. And the hours just tick-tock, tick-tock by. More hours when I didn't write, or read God's word/pray, love my wife, watch my kids grow before my eyes, feed anyone, do anything for anyone except myself. Now, sometimes I need a diversion to unwind. Games, sports (playing or watching), blogging, or just vegging come to mind as things I do for that necessity. But I've got to watch myself. And it doesn't have to be games. It can be sports, movies, running, walking, sleeping, working, working out, being at church, reading, writing, and uh, notably sinful things... I can get caught up in a ton of things where I'm really wasting time because they're not what I really should be doing.

What I have to do is, I've got to factor in what the Will of God is for me -- as part of the Church, as part of my church, as a husband and father, and as an individual, and (I'm going to give myself this one) as a writer. There is so, so, sooooo much that I fail at, and if I listed my sins, it would require another couple or dozen blog sites -- but I'm not sure I have a greater sin than the monumental waste of time that, for the most part, I've lived. Instead of worrying about all that though, I've got to focus on Christ and go from there. It's extremely (I really can't put it into words) difficult for me to do this. I love myself so much, and I really don't mind wasting time on myself. But Christ is King, not me.

So at least I've come to the realization. Like I said, since I'm not breaking any new ground, I figure most people have a pretty good concept of this for themselves. But then, sometimes it's therapeutic for me to let my thoughts bubble out into this blog. So I've done it again. I've turned what started out to be a thoughtful and thought-out post into a diary of my personal crap. Too bad for the reader, I guess. I do apologize, but I'm also posting, because I still haven't learned Ken's Poopy-Doopy lesson.

Wow. It's early morning, and I already feel like I need a beer.

Time

Gansky Does It Again

I love my monthly writer's critique group.

Not because I'm masochistic and love the pitter patter of criticism against my tin ears. No, it's because it's so much fun to be around people who speak the same language that I do. The language of creative writing.

Now, don't take this the wrong way. I love my family, and being around them, more than anything. More than words on a blog can express. And while I can't say I love work, I do love the guys that I work with and the camaraderie that we share.

But there's something about slinging around ideas and ink with other writers (published or not) that scratches an itch. And it's one of those itches in a hard-to-reach spot that gets more intense the longer it goes unscratched.

This is the reason that I've linked Alton Gansky on the sidebar. I've read a couple of his books and enjoyed them, but it's the fact that he regularly speaks my language and scratches my itch on his blog that got him the link. Everytime I read his posts on writing, I want to scream like a holy roller in an all-day tent revival, "Preach it, brother."

His last four posts are no exception, and I don't want to preempt him. Just check out the link thingies. Clicking on any one of them gets you to all of them:

The Homer Simpson School of Creativity

The Sudden Cessation of Stupidity

The Painful Truth About Deadlines

The Right Question

If you're a writer or a creative thinker of any kind, I think you'll agree that they resonate. If not, sorry to have wasted your time. I'll let you get back to the lyrics du jour, now.

Alton Gansky