Sunday, March 26, 2017
Sunday, March 19, 2017
I must sit down at my desk again, with surface of particle board,
And all I ask is a working Mac with power strip and cord,
And pencil drawer and file drawer with drafts aligned and waiting,
And a picture, you see, of my wife and me, both smiling, neither faking.
I must sit down at my desk again, and scribble, feeling swell,
Waxing bold, if it must be told, because of the new desk smell,
And all I ask is a cup of joe and a YouTube playlist long,
And a run of words, no culls or turds; woven prose like merry song,
I must sit down at my desk again, to a solitary author's life,
To pages of mold, soon to be gold, once slashed with my editor's knife,
And all I ask is a sale or two, upon my journey's end,
And as I wait, in financial straits, I'll start to write again.
(With apologies to John Masefield.)
Yes, I do have a new desk.
Saturday, March 11, 2017
|(Where the psychopaths grow.)|
Under the Florida sun, Barbara Goodheart taps out her eclectic writing, penning thrillers such as The Wild Place, as well as medical books—co-authored with her scientist husband—dealing with diabetes control.
And now Barbara opines most delightfully on my Lovecraftian horror novel, Hallow Mass:
"Devotees of this type of book will . . . find . . . wonderful writing you
don't typically [see] in this genre.
'. . . unkempt children who watch you like coyotes from trash-littered yards . . . '
'. . . the campus dozed like a drunk in a hammock . . . '
'As the stars rose above, a young prisoner kneeling between Frye and Hutchins commenced to shake like a dog passing a coconut.'
And many other examples of great writing that are too long to include in a brief review . . . "
|In softcover and durable ebook.|
It's Saturday. Indulge.
Thursday, March 09, 2017
Shut up on this good night,
Pearl Jam thunders into day,
Raves with strangers liquored-up tight.
Balcony pot smoke dims sight.
Your duh-huh laugh is pretty gay,
Please take Ambien this good night.
Requests for quiet—go fly a kite,
Cops summoned June to May,
Feckless mother flounces away on another flight.
Ah, but you're young and light,
A teenage dunce with brains of hay,
Cotton in my ears at the coming of the night.
(Apologies to Dylan Thomas.)
Sunday, February 26, 2017
|What the heck is going on here?|
Apologies to John DonneFor those following my furniture saga, here and here, I finally bought a desk—30x by 60x with two grommet holes, drawers on both sides plus a pencil drawer. The color is mahogany. The delivery date is next week. Now what excuse will I have not to write? In the meantime, after some thought, I say:
Desk, be thou proud, though some have called thee
Useless and fey, but thou art not so;
For those who write at Starbucks know,
To cry out, at cell phoned customers on a yakking spree,
Had you but a desk, in peace, you might pen poetry.
Actually, writing has picked up lately as I begin the third draft of my sci-fi-fantasy-YA-military sci-fi-keyword stuffed novel. Is intelligence enough to rule? Can arrogant, self-centered teenagers find happiness and companionship? Who is Uncle Rockwell and why does he steal everything?
Nonetheless, no one's going to read this for, maybe, eight more drafts, so why not keep writing the darn thing. Fie upon perfectionism! Well, a few corrections, here and there.
Friday, February 17, 2017
|"Yummy new office chair."|
Hajime Isayama's popular work on strange, idiot giants devouring most of humanity has caught the interest of Hollywood. Warner Bros. wants a crack at the franchise. According to a January article in Deadline Hollywood:
"The feature would be a remake of the Japanese film that was done in two parts. In 2015, Part 1 ended up as the seventh-highest-grossing locally produced film. Part II did not do as well."
Having watched the 2015 film, I can tell you why I rocked and II didn't: eat-'em-count. In the first movie, people are eaten by the long ton. In the second film, there's a great deal of yelling between characters, but no set-piece Titan eat-'em-ups.
Having never read the mangas, I admit to, perhaps, missing some subtleties. But this is my considered opinion. Tinsel Town take note.
On to my office.
Since my last post on the subject, I've bought a very comfortable chair at a cool used office furniture store near my house. Great desks on sale as well but the rub will be getting one into my office, through the maze of boxes around the front door, down a narrow hallway to the appropriate spot. If the desk needs to be assembled here, it could be tricky. Move the boxes? Splendid! But there's the issue of where to stage them during the process. But these are First World obstacles. I want a new—or used in good shape—desk and will obtain one shortly.
Now back to wasting time instead of writing.
Wednesday, February 08, 2017
|The book that caused the fuss.|
I mentioned my Old West send-up of Fifty Shades of Grey. She called me 'cis transheebic' and a 'white male wampooger.' I'm not an academic, so I can't tell you what the phrases mean, but they sure sounded bad.
What set her off? I can't say. We were discussing a broken parking gate on our building, then I said something about a new 'Fifty Shades' movie and plugged my book. Boom! Out comes the verbal artillery.
Here's a trailer for my tale about a murmuring woman, a railroad tycoon, and a secret place where dreams come true provided you dream real different. Is it worth calling a fellow, 'transheebic?' You decide.