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.