Ramblin' Man 2

Some days the thoughts come, but the words don’t follow. You got no flow. This will happen to me depending on the fluctuating moods I deal with. These past few days, the ideas are there but look like little rodent shit tracks on the page. Still, I get the gist down on paper—the style and flow can be fixed later.

Sending those first pages can be nerve-wracking. Don’t send them unless they’re tip-top. You’ll get the urge to send them right away, critical mistakes and all. Be hard on yourself. Don’t think a prospective agent will look past any shortcomings. Don’t think the majority of your writing is of such genius that the agent will look past those plot holes.

I can’t read modern crime fiction bestsellers. I try and read these ballyhooed books, and it just makes me sad. They’re so…predictable. I’m stuck in the past—old-school writers with balls. I mean, who’s the last writer you read and thought: “That fucker’s got some stones, and I want more.”?

I’ve lost interest in almost everything besides working out and writing. One lights up the voices while the other shuts them down. It’s becoming blurry on which accomplishes which, though.

Back to those first pages. Preparing them during the silly season is insane—which should say it all. Initially, I was planning on sending them this week—I thought I was close. But I started seeing things that, while looking good style-wise, didn’t jibe with the story. I’m going to give myself a few more weeks and send pages after the new year. I have to drill that patience. I have to give myself every opportunity to succeed, or else I’m just pissing up a rope.

Ever had a frozen shoulder? Avoid them—they blow.

Rolling in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu is the closest many of us will come to Fight Club. You look at things differently when put in highly uncomfortable situations. You’re always uncomfortable in BJJ—at my game stage, anyhow. That’s a good thing. We’re all a bunch of panty-waist-pampered zombies, and it needs to stop.

What happened to male readers? I don’t know statistics. I only know that none of the guys I talk to regularly read anymore. You ask them about an author, and they look at you like you proclaimed the moon is cheese-based. Many of the manliest men I’ve known or read about were voracious readers—what the hell happened? I want to get them back in the fold. But does the publishing industry even want that to happen?

I’m a geek and don’t fit in. I read, write, watch old movies, work out, and practice BJJ—still searching for chums with similar tastes. It ain’t easy, my brothers and sisters. My mind is a very solitary place.

My son thinks I’m the cat’s ass—that’s more a reflection of his nature than mine. He’s beautiful.

Running Free

Haven’t gone anywhere—just the opposite. Working harder than ever and trying to right some wrongs. Writing will always be more difficult for some of us. Especially us who are not willing to bend to the sloppy, virtuous status quo. I’ll find my own way around it.

In the meantime, I’ve taken up an old hobby: Gracie Jiu-Jitsu. This art was the main reason I moved to Florida (I didn’t think I had anything to offer as a writer back then). But I signed my son up and got myself hooked back in as well. I get a lot of technical brain work while writing, but I didn’t realize how much technical physical work I also needed. BJJ is very technical—it’s about finesse, not muscle.

Nothing will ever supplant writing for me, though. The physical aspects of my life (I’m a very physical person) are needed to shut down the voices in my head, even for a short while. With writing, I get to let those voices and personalities loose; I get to run crazy-wild with them.

Running free in my own dark world is where I feel most at home.

This Bipolar Writer

I don’t talk about it. Dealing with it takes all I’ve got on most days—the highs and lows. Never mind the stigmata. It’s been tough on my family—shit, it’s been tough on me.

So why talk about it at all? It might help others understand my writing—subject, style, and emotions. I cannot help what goes on in my noggin. And those who walk my road know the gist—whining gets you jack. I won’t even get into the trauma I’ve inflicted on myself over the years. That’s a bloody and terrible tale for another day.

My fiancée and I have some interesting discussions, to say the least: a poor black girl from the hood and a poor-to-middling white boy from the country. She hasn’t always known about my situation. Lately, we’ve talked more on the subject—the ebb and flow of moods and emotions. She doesn’t fully understand why shit’s not lined up in my brain. The luck of the draw, I tell her. But here’s the deal: she gets it—and that’s the difference.

What does that mean exactly? There's no coddling (not my scene, man), and she doesn’t give me the old “suck it up” routine (I don’t shirk a responsibility—never have). She gives me space when the melancholy hits. When the turn comes, and I’m riding the high, she’s right there with me. We rock steady.

The roughest aspect: my son. I beat myself up over him. The sheer confusion of his daddy’s shifting moods—how difficult must it be for a young child to deal with those valleys and mountains? He’s such a great kid—easily the single best thing that’s ever happened to me. And somehow, even with his youth, he gets it too. Never underestimate the beauty and intelligence of a child.

Perspective: People will treat you differently because you’re bipolar. People will leave you because you’re bipolar. People will say it’s a choice to act this way (in some cases, it can be—if you don’t take care of yourself or give up completely). But, if you’re lucky and have the stones to let people in, you might find a person or two to back your play. We’ll label it empathy—fuck sympathy.

I deal by putting it down on paper. Everything—balls deep. I have to write—what’s going down on the page is what’s going down inside. I don’t have a choice but to write. And I won’t stop.

I hope you won’t either.

When Shit Goes South

I listen to Waylon Jennings.

9/13/22 Update: I'm listening to too much of old Watasha. 

Zurich, KS—Twelve Years Later

I recently took a road trip to my native homeland. My family has never left the area, and I’d been long out of touch. Zurich and the surrounding area shaped my life—both good and bad. I grew up there learning a work ethic seemingly forgotten in our current times. Along the way, I also rode those first critical waves of life experiences, both wonderful and horrible, that would influence the remainder of my life.

Upon arrival, I drove my fiancé through town (my parents live south of Zurich, in the country). I was shocked at the state of my childhood stomping grounds. I didn’t even snap photos—I didn’t and don’t want to remember it like this. The accompanying photo of Saindon’s corner store (beautiful memories), bank (the bank was gone even as a kid), poolhall (ditto), and Post Office (we didn’t have an address growing up—only a PO box) was kiped off the internet. Currently, with a population of around 85 people, the town seems to be falling in on itself. Like its pride has been stripped away by the heat and ever-present winds of the plains.  

Not to say Zurich was ever booming in my time. But there were always kids out playing, and now there are none. People kept their properties up, and now very few do. What holds it together and keeps the town alive are its exceptional people—rogues and prudent citizens alike.

I was able to experience this with the two most important people in my life: my nine-year-old son and fiancé, both city dwellers since birth. My little cowboy loved it—driving four-wheelers, riding lawn mowers, and discovering animals in their natural habitat. And I believe my girl, despite her upbringing (which was rough), is a country girl at heart. Both of them thrived. Both loved the overwhelming freedom of the rolling plains and the quiet that permeates and calms.

While the state of my old hometown is hard to take, the people draw me back and will continue to do so. I miss and love Zurich and Kansas.  

I love what being raised rural gave me.

Classic Crime Movie: The Case Against Brooklyn

 

As a classic film noir junkie, I’m always prowling for new material. I came across this and was hooked from the get-go. A rookie cop looking to climb the ranks and doing whatever it takes to make it happen—oh hell yes! The plot is solid. The acting is outstanding—Darren McGavin, as the new recruit, takes it to the hilt. McGavin is one of those forgotten actors, good in every damn role he played (Christmas Story and The Natural are his most notable). The supporting cast is right up there as well.

“The Case Against Brooklyn” (1958) is a new favorite and provides insight into what I'm working to achieve in my writing. Check it out—you’ll dig it.

Don't Chase the Rabbit

The rabbit being comparable titles recently published. I'm unwilling to fall into this chasm of nothingness. I read older books—masters who paved the way. Most crime writing today is watered-down bullshit meant not to offend. Writing pure doesn't cause offense. Instead, it offers a more accurate snapshot of how life was and is—not how we would like it to be to make ourselves feel justified and superior and enlightened. Do we really believe that someone living on the fringes wants to read some whitewashed dribble? Do you think they cannot handle the language involved—the language which is theirs, to begin with?

Ignorance is one thing. Naivete is another.

Focused

I’ve been playing around with a few short stories. I’m having a hard time getting motivated on them, though. After writing a 102k word novel, shorts feel like premature ejaculation—it’s okay, but I want more. I want to move forward with the next book in the series and focusing on anything other than my vision for this continuing crime saga is rough.

My issue is thoughts sometimes get muddled. I overthink things, overdo things—you know the drill. Getting hung up on the potential agent outcome will fuck with any writer’s head and send them on various mental escapades. 

Existential issues aside, I’m going to put my head down and work—on all fronts. Writers write, and that’s the gist. I’ll work on the short stories and notes for the next book. I enjoy the information gathering and thought process—brooding over such things keeps me centered. I dig the writing process too goddamn much. I’m not going to settle for the idea of being an author versus working hard to be one.

Query and Synopsis: Multiple Versions?

I started my query and synopsis long before my manuscript was completed. A rough process. You can research a hundred queries and as many synopses and still screw up your own. I figured waiting until my novel was absolutely complete would not be a smart move. I knew these two items were important. Each time I got bogged down in my writing, I’d switch to my query or synopsis for a bit. 

The first go-around, I tried hard to get the information in there. I figured agents need to know this shit, right? Then again, I also concluded that adding in more might come across as a lack of confidence. Agents are busy—long queries probably get nixed routinely. I could be wrong, but who the hell knows.

I wrote a couple of query and synopsis options: long, short, and varying word choices—every other agent wants something different. And it allows me to sound them out, seeing if one flows better than the other. At the very least, I’m not scrambling to start a document from scratch with each successive query. 

All of the above may be considered moot until I land an agent. But being prepared—giving it your all—is always the best course of action. It’s the only damn way I know how to do things.

Writing, Reading, Working Out

I’m a geek—more on that later.

The query process is ongoing. Slow going. I’m maintaining my writing schedule in the meantime, which is essential. Dig that old saying: do something, even if it’s wrong.

I’ve also started working out full-bore again. I always try to maintain my physical well-being but going all-in is different. I do it for my body and my brain—a hard workout can take your mind off things. It’s good for your soul. If more people did some sort of strenuous manual labor every day, we’d be happier overall. One doesn’t worry about crap when you’re balls deep in digging, lifting, or carrying. And when you’re in pain, the voices in your head stop screaming—a bonus to consider.

Currently reading: "Jackson Pollock: An American Saga”. This is a massive biography. I like Pollock’s art, even though I know jack about art. The person is more interesting to me—relatability, I suppose. I migrate toward biographies about men who struggle but never stop.

Listening to: American Pastoral by Philip Roth. Straight-up literature is rough for me at times. Overly long sentences and paragraphs. Overly wrought descriptions. In other words, it takes a long time to get to the point. I’m enjoying this listen—an ultimately deep dive into having and then losing everything. I have an omnibus of Roth’s work but could never get past a few pages. Somehow, the audiobook makes it feasible—and makes me want to read the words.

Appreciating Brevity

Querying is strictly the rat’s ass.

It’s not the rejection that’s difficult to handle. It’s the waiting and having the patience and will to keep writing (and eating and exercising and staying sane) in the meantime, even when you have no idea what the response will ultimately be. It’s faith, baby.

That’s pretty much all I’ve got to say today.

Ramblin' Man

I sometimes watch Noir Alley on TCM just for the Eddie Muller intro. Eddie’s the balls, man. I wonder if the fucker even uses a teleprompter—so much passion for his subject.

A great narrator can make your favorite book an event—better than any movie you’ll ever watch. My favorite narrators are Christopher Lane and Scott Brick. I never understood how funny American Tabloid is until I heard Christopher Lane’s reading (maybe my sense of humor is a bit…well…). And I never realized the true and misguided passion of White Jazz until listening to Scott Brick’s recital.

Kids are great. They have no fucking agenda other than wanting to be happy. Adults, even the best of us, always have an agenda.

One of my favorite biographies is “A Tragic Honesty, The Life and Work of Richard Yates”. I have nothing in common with Richard Yates, but I understood him as a person, you know? Then again, maybe that means I have something in common with him. Which is some scary shit.

I haven’t listened to the radio for a couple of years. The last time was a road trip for work. I couldn’t tell country from hip-hop or rock. I kind of stick to streaming what I want instead.

I’m currently reading “The Big Sin” by Jack Webb of Dragnet fame. Not bad. You can kind of tell that Jack wanted to break loose but was constricted by the ethics of the 1950’s.

A few years back, I purchased the first three novels of a popular thriller series. It’s been made into a couple of movies and recently a series on Amazon Prime. Partway through the first book, the main character said something that made no sense, and I threw the fucking thing across the room. Maybe I’ll get off my high horse and try it again sometime.

I named my beautiful son after a fictional private eye. If you think it’s “Philip” or “Marlowe”, I’ll have to come back in my next life as a squirrel and run straight up your pants leg.

 

In or Out?

A few days of forced absence are sometimes required. Within some of us lies a deep and ingrained sense of discipline. People brought up to work do not take time off because they "deserve it". In this case, though, I took a couple of days off and let my thoughts and ideas percolate. I wanted to sift through my writing and see if I still felt the same—I'm a notorious perfectionist. 

I wrote the story I set out to write in the style I wanted. I wrote the truth. We'll see if this translates for agents. Patience and optimism are my wingmen in this numbers game.

Understanding my writing may fall into grey areas of acceptability is critical to my psyche—people tend to play it safer than ever these days. But I told myself: If you're going to do this, you have to be all in—no safe places.

And so here we are. All in.

Getting Close

I managed a lot of work this week. My manuscript has been thoroughly edited (to my absolute best ability), its word count sitting at 102k. Word count is important, but it should not dictate the story. And I'm very close to nailing down my query—call it 90% complete. 

I resist the urge to start sending out my agent package too quickly. When we close in on the goal line, we all tend to get our assholes in a pucker. However, one can only edit a document so many times—at some point, you have to fish or cut that fucker loose.

I’ve worked hard. I'm confident in my work. I'm ready to do some fishing for a change.

I won't bullshit anyone; today has been rough. I don't like getting into why- I'm not interested in pity parties. Sometimes, or many times, shit comes at you from all angles, all at once. You either deal with the circumstances or puss out. You'll always feel better if you deal.

I've managed another ten pages of editing so far today. Not too impressive but this is deep editing, down to the marrow. It's remarkable the fuck-ups you can find when you focus beyond your own perceived brilliance.

Still cutting. I've whittled it down to 102,600 words. Pretty sure I can knock off another 1k plus. I worried taking so much out would dilute the story. The worry is false. I find it easier to read and follow with the bullshit out of the way. But it's a process- long and painstaking.

I enjoy it to the point of obsession.

Knowing Where You're From

It's the time of year where the sun hits at a certain angle at certain times of the day and brings back memories. Almost as if you can go back to a place and time, right there in your head, and it's an absolutely pure feeling.  

On days like this I'm reminded of why I like writing crime fiction, especially here in St. Pete. A good majority of crime novels based in Florida always seem to revolve around the boat set: fishing, beach bars, "Florida Man" type things. I like to view things from the other side of the coin, from the downtrodden point of view. 

Maybe it's because I grew up in a place where most people didn't have much. Life can be hard in rural America. I like people who don't have much but always push forward. People who get themselves deep in shit and have to work out their situation. Those are the folks I write about.

When people read my work, I want them to feel what I feel while I'm writing- the grasping at straws, anxiety, and dark humor. Of hope and despair. I want to push them through a jungle of deceit and pain. I want them to know there are people out there on the fringes who are just like us save a mistake here or there. A mistake that changed the course of their life. And that any of our lives can be altered, whether intended or not.

Back to work.

The Cut

It's a beautiful day here in Florida and I'm working lowering on the word count for my crime novel. My original draft came in at around 115,000 words. My second draft came in at around 108,500 and I was very confident with the end product. But feedback from agents suggests more work is needed and the challenge is welcome. I'm currently at around 103,700 words with no plot or character cuts.

On a side note, I'm also re-working my query. Or I may just burn it, bury it in the backyard with the other bodies and start over. Either way, I'll make it work.

Keep Working

Years have passed by. I never stopped writing, just did things different for a time. I've come full circle. Time to swap that photo at the right for an older, better version.

My novel is making the rounds to agents. It's a hell of a process but I've embraced it- I'm too stubborn to do otherwise and I like the challenge feedback brings. In the meantime, I grind. I work. I believe in the words I put down.

What I haven't done is submit a new short story in a long time. Years. And I've got quite a few stories on tap. I'm currently looking for new outlets for my crime fiction (3-5k word range) and suggestions are welcome.