Why I Do…

It all begins with a bit of daily reading…

And then the writing.

Other than my daily devotional of Stephen King’s “On Writing”, I try to read every day. It’s good for the brain…well, at least mine. Anyway, a Facebook friend of mine, Dave Vescio, suggested that I read the book “Renegades Write The Rules”, penned by Amy Jo Martin. The book deals with the concept of navigating the world of social media. Anytime that I read a self-help text, I search for the underlying concept that can be affixed to other aspects of my life…11072373_10206516303885636_1153990341_n

So, why do I  write? I write because I enjoy writing.  I always have…and I always will.

Nothing more…nothing less.

Would it be nice to write the next piece of “It” literature, rake in some fat leaves of cabbage, and wait for a big movie option? Yes, and I’d be lying if I wrote here that I haven’t thought about it. The reality is that I have a lot of work to get to that point. The other reality is that the odds are against me.

Why continue writing, if riches are a “shot in the dark”?

Because writing is what I was designed to do. I may have reached that reality a little late in the game, but I reached it.

Attention is nice, but for every one hour at a book signing, I enjoyed 500 or more, alone, drinking cold coffee, and listening to the voices between my ears. As soon as one book is completed…it’s time to start the next one.

I was hoping that I  would have something profound to say…nope. Not really.

I write because I am supposed to.

(NOTE: Today’s post is the first for me, using the WordPress app for my smartphone. I’m weaning myself from the tether of my laptop. Maybe Scrivener will create an Android app so I can write using my Note 5?)

From A Dead Sleep…

I sleep like a log. Maybe that’s TMI for most of you. I’ve slept through F3 tornadoes less than a half mile from my location. In my younger years, I slept through a car crashing into the row-house next door.

Last night, a particularly alluring woman woke me from a deep and needed eight hours of shut-eye.

Everything a man would need…or want. Well, a man that was wide-awake.

“A.L., I need you to make some…changes.” She stroked my chin and blew her rose scented breath across my ear. She was wearing a long green dress, that matched her eyes…a rip in the fabric giving me free access to stare at long tanned legs. Her hair was long, raven-black, and lush. Her mouth was perfect…her lips seduced me with every purse and pulse.

She was perfect.

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“What…what do you want me to do? What kind of changes?”

“Me…change me. This is what you want. Not her.” She twisted her head toward my desk and the glowing computer screen. “Do me…but do me right.” Her throat was long and taut. She roped her tongue around her blood red mouth. “I want you to do me…right…now.”

I know exactly what she wanted. I know how she wanted it.

I sat up and planted my pes planus feet on the floor. Even in the dog-days of this summer, the hardwood was cold under my arthritic soles. A few shuffling, stiff steps took me to my desk and the words that I slaved to acquire during yesterday’s session.

“There I am. Right there. Now look at me. Do I look like that?” The green dress looked so good on her. I wanted to take her right there…show her that she would always be mine. “This, my good writer, is not what you wrote.” She placed a hand on each hip, thrusting the left pelvis at my eyes.

“Why can’t you just be happy as a…”

“Because…I’m not.” Her emerald green eyes were imaginary, seductive, and insisting, in their beauty.

“I wrote that entire chapter based on what I thought you were. That’s a few hours of editing just to find every reference to your beautiful looks.”

“I guess that you should have asked me first, before creating what you wanted me to be.”

She stood there over my shoulder as I made the necessary changes. I was a bit miffed as I started, but between 4AM and 5AM, she looked better…different…more alluring…a more compelling character.

I finished my edits around 6:30 this morning. I took my sweet time and re-read the two chapters that introduced Melanie to the world. It was in that half-hour of reading that I realized that she was beautiful. More beautiful than I could ever imagine.

That’s when I noticed her…living in the words that she led me to.

Her green eyes burned through my words and made love to my heart.

I fell back into my deep sleep…wondering if I’d ever see her again…outside of the the confines of my book.

The Focus of a Rocket-Brain Surgeon…

The Focus of a Rocket-Brain Surgeon…

I’m not particularly pleased when writers and other artists try to parallel our crafts alongside rocket science, brain surgery, rocket-brain surgery, what officers of the law have to deal with…and so on.

Well, I wasn’t until last week.

Imagine that the person that built your home wasn’t focused on their task…and you ended up with two walls that never join. Remember, building a home isn’t as important as rocket-brain surgery…etc…etc…

Other than rocket-brain surgery, there is no vocation that is rocket-brain surgery.

Last week, I didn’t have the distraction of social media…so I turned the television off, cranked the Pink Floyd up…LOUD…and worked out 2,500 words over five or so hours over five days.

For me that is good. My writing style consists of me writing a paragraph…reading it a few times and repeating the process.

I had ZERO distractions…and I wrote.

I was focused like a Rocket-Brain Surgeon, drinking jet-black coffee…sweetened with sugar flavored amphetamines.

Maybe I was right all along.

Writing is NOT Rocket-Brain Surgery.

But it sure doesn’t hurt to have the focus of a Rocket-Brain Surgeon while I’m doing it.


Out & About…

I left the coffee pot to fend for itself. My urges spirited me out of the safety of my home and into a big bad world that cared as much for me, as I for it.

I’m a creature of habit and I find myself holed up at the same cafè, at the same table, drinking the same acidic coffee, and eating a bagel that is a dead ringer for an ancient cousin from 30 B.C.

The tables around me, save for a few hungry souls, are empty. The leftovers of a long holiday weekend. I hear the emptiness screaming for company. Begging for the absent souls to return…and bring the bags of flesh with them.

My headphones are jammed deep into my ears, pounding out a music that is not designed to entertain, but to summon the absent souls of my imagination to life. I don’t want or need the company of flesh and blood, but I sure need the amity of those that ease the pain of my own privacy.

So the word come and the people go. I try not to watch them…but they are so annoyingly cute…in their little outfits. Preening and praying that someone pays them a little attention.

Oh, I have…I’ve written all of the people into a little ditty…

…and maybe….just maybe…

…you’ve paid me a little attention.

The Rocket’s Red Glare…

Metaphors are horrible replacements for well-thought out descriptions. However, there are a few times when a metaphor is the only course of action.

I’m stuck here in this chair, behind this desk, working. The neighbors are firing a good weeks wages into the blue sky…too impatient to wait for the waning evening light.

I feel guilty for not enjoying my 52nd Independence Day. True, it is actually tomorrow…but it seems that the party has invaded the entire weekend.

The neighbor caught me spying into his backyard and nodded that uncomfortable greeting that was friendly enough to keep me behind the walls of my invisible fencing.

On a railing of his deck, my neighbor had a huge assortment of fireworks and explosives. I don’t know what they were all going to do, but the box was large and full.

One particular rocket caught my eye. It stood out from its boxmates not due to its size, or bright color. Instead, its colors were faded and blurred. It was older than most of the other boom toys. My neighbor retrieved it from the box and smiled down at me.

I knew what he knew.

This old codger of a powder packed cylinder was something special. It’s job was to work on this holiday. It had something to prove.

In an instant, the flame lit the fuse…the ignition was silent and its hiss into the sky was different. Twisted, but direct. toward the blue Tennessee sky…It veered a bit…and started to drop back toward the sky. Neighbor-boy pleaded with Neighbor-Dad to light something else. “It’s a dud.”

I knew that there was more.

It dropped a good thirty feet before the hissing came from high above. Smoke and sparks breathed from the bottom of the rocket and it started a slow…strong…steady climb toward an unknown apex.

The little boy stood and watched the old rocket take hold of its second life.

Me…I turned back to my desk and turned the music up a little louder. Maybe, I’ll get to enjoy next years fireworks. For now, I’ve got to light up another stage in my rocket.