THE VIEW FROM OUT THERE

As we reach into summer, I often go back to days spent living in rural America. And, while I live in St. Pete now, whenever my wife and I refer to home, we always refer to Kansas.

It's a hard thing explaining what makes a man. For many, especially people like my dad, life is simple. You get up, go to work, watch a little television at night and go to bed. There's very little sitting around. Very little feeling sorry for one's self. You start working when you were young and you quit working when your body gives up on you.

Entertainment was trivial as a boy growing up in, and then south of, Zurich. We didn't go to movies- the closest theater was almost 40 miles away- and dinner out meant the Pizza Hut in Plainville, some seven miles away. We rode our bicycles on the sand streets of Zurich, played in the mud and made tunnels in the milo field across the street from our house. When we moved out into the country, we traded riding bicycles for running in the pastures and following creeks choked with sandplum bushes as far as they would take us.

As we grew older, sports came into our lives. I went to school in Damar and Palco, the two towns which made up school district 269, one of the rural school districts for Rooks County. Our choices for sports boiled down to three: Football, basketball and track. In Junior High I competed in all three. I was very good in football, ok in track and terrible at basketball. We had very few kids attending school and football was 6-man...great fun, because as a running back, when I hit the hole I was gone.

High school brought me only football and we were able to field a team big enough to play 8-man with two more on the bench. We had 60 people in our entire high school and either 12 or 15 in my graduating class. I don't rightly remember which number is correct. During this time I also began working after school for a rancher who raised pure-blood Herefords. Best job ever and at times, leaves me wondering if I missed my calling. During the summers I worked for my dad on a pulling unit in the oilfield. Hell. To me, at least. During this period of my life I learned a good night out could be had while drinking a 12-pack of beer with a buddy while driving the country roads made of shale. The little things.

Throughout these years, from my pre-teens and well into my teens, I felt changes coming on, changes which will affect me for the rest of my life. There can be an immense amount of sadness growing up out there. Still, through it all, I could always go run in the pastures, drive the country roads like a maniac or go outside without hearing sirens and cars and my next door neighbor. You could listen to the constant wind and just BE.

My wife and I go back every year. Often, we consider moving back for good. I don't know. You get used to good restaurants, ease of anything you want within a short driving distance. But you can't build up a coyote wagon here and run it in the neighbor's pasture without a worry. Can't drink water from the tap and still have it taste spring-fresh. And nothing's lonelier than a city full of people. Two sides to every coin, as they say.

Yet for all it wasn't back then, and all it still isn't now, Kansas will always be my point of retreat, my home.

A FIRST PARAGRAPH...OR TWO

Christ, I'm actually posting something on my blog. Hell, I even caught Rose up there off guard. Mmmm, Rose.

I've been working hard. Short pieces completed and short pieces at 95% or better. I'm also pedal to the metal on a longer piece, book length, which is heading toward being the best thing I've written to date. The latter is being built with everything I've learned over the past two years shoved into it. We'll see what happens.

Now to double-back on that learning thing. I've been putting a shit ton of effort into opening paragraphs, and I thought why not give a little taste and see what people think? We've all learned, at this point, how deadly important those first lines are. So read on and let me know.

First off is the opening paragraph from a short story currently making the rounds. As it's a little murky on genre, I've decided the best place would be a good literary mag. You know, those folks who take eight weeks to a year, or a fucking eternity to say yay or nay. I don't mind, because this piece will find a home although maybe with a little tweaking.

Shoveling dirt was damn good training. His old man said it. Validation came through hard earned muscle and the wind of a quarter horse. Miles of ditches labored over right in his own back yard. He’d dig them deep, fighting through roots and rocks, fill them in again and continue the cycle. Damn good training.

And here's the one at 95%. It's dark and long, 6800 words. Also got a love element ticking in there as well, so the literary mag route again. And sure, I've tried chopping some length off, but this was meant to have some guts and when something is meant to be, then man, you just let it be.

I was with ol’ John Brown at Harper’s Ferry. Ain’t got much bearin’ on what I’m a fixin’ to tell ya, but I was there just the same. Lost the use of three fingers on my left hand in that damn skirmish. Tore out the joints on ‘em. Don’t matter much. Still got good use of my thumb and the finger next to it and they’re stronger than the average man’s entire hand. Overcompensation, the doc calls it. ‘Sides, right hand’s fine and it’s the one I use most the time. I get along all right.

The first sentences in each are exactly what gushed into my head and everything else followed. I like writing this way and is how most of my short stuff gets off the ground. But still, like most of my work, the meat of the story is usually vibrating on a completely different wavelength. Such is the same with these two. And the book...I already know the ending, so now I'm in the process of putting the jelly in the doughnut, so to speak.

That's all I got, for probably another three months or however fricken long it's been. Comments welcome.

See ya on the flip.

Sunshine City Terror. A Bad Day Today in St. Pete

South St. Pete- area of 37th street and 28th Ave S. Right now. What is being reported that we hope to God is not true: Federal Marshal in surgery. Two St. Pete cops and K9 dog down. Senseless. Terrible beyond words.

One take on the story so far: St. Pete Shooting

Nobody is proud to report this.

Took part in a citizens police course this past year and met some of these outstanding people and right now I am stunned. My prayers will never be enough for these hero's and their families.

And the filthy animal at the root of all this, Hydra Lacy Jr...let's just hope they bring him down without any other good people getting hurt.

If you got prayers to spare, then please send them up.

A Good Post Over At BIB

I read a damn good blog article this morning. This one sort of puts into words where I was at not so long ago and illustrates a few issues I still struggle with from time to time. Yeah, you've been in that boat too. Check it out over at Black Irish Blarney and read between the lines a little. A couple of solid, interesting thoughts in the comments section as well.

Speaking of chumps, who's that brotha to the right? A few buds have been bustin' my hump for awhile now, wanting a photo so they know who they're talking to. I even wore my best smile for the occasion.

See ya on the flip, amigos.

Two in the Bush

Two in progress. One I've put aside to let simmer (from post below). No punches pulled on this one. Takes place in 1981 and utilizes two points of view. Gonna be a long one, but worth it.

The other has a lead in quote by one of my personal heroes, The Manassa Mauler. Call this piece a character study regarding a man who is decidedly not Mr. Dempsey. I'm diggin' it so much- can't stop working on it...organic. I'm inside this guy's head. Or maybe he's inside mine.

As a side note, I've got something living in my attic and walls. Freaking my wife out- I tell her to imagine it's a tiny unicorn sprinkling rainbow powder up there; takes the sting off the fact that it's probably an ugly ass fruit rat. I've got a trap set though, and I'll get the little shit.

And a big cheers to all my friends out there who I do not spend near enough time communicating with (too damn busy with the voices in my own head).

Stay chill.

In The Rearview

Working on this one, 'bout three weeks into it. Probably come in at about 5500 words. Maybe more. Maybe less. And you see that bad boy, '69 Firebird 400 up there? A main character of ITR in it's own right. Guys and cars, right?

I come from a long line of car nuts, me being the lesser nut of the cluster. Still, I jones. I got a '69 'bird up in Kansas which needs complete restoration. If I can get it down here, I'll get to work on it. If not, I'll probably have to let it go. No, it's not a 400, but the potential is still there and I love the lines.

My dad and brothers all go deep in the well for cars. My dad has a '64 Buick Riviera with a 465 Wildcat engine in it. Probably doesn't mean much unless you're a gearhead, but that's some serious beef under the hood. He also has a pristine '72 Chevy Custom Cab pickup and a '54 Chevy pickup we lowered down and dropped a V8 in years ago. My little bro' had a '72 Corvette and my older brother had a '72 El Camino he dropped down, put a blower on...the whole shebang. I had a '69 El Camino through high school. Ahh, the memories.

It's been years since I've gotten under the hood. I mean really gotten under the hood. Yeah, I change the occasional alternator and that biz on my commuter car. Not the same thing. So, I'll cross my fingers, see if I can't get that '69 down here. We shall see.

See ya on the flip.

Eclectic Freak Show: The Reading Edition

I gotta slow down. Books are stacked all over the joint. That 8'x8' gorgeous bookcase I built a couple of years ago- jam packed. Who knows how many reads I've gotten started. And I read them all, little by little. Some I get a little more hooked on than others, but it's all about mood. Where am I at this minute? Where am I at this second?

If your game, below is a small sampling of what I'm tearing through.

The Razor's Edge- W. Somerset Maugham. A beautiful piece of writing.

The Blue Hammer- Ross MacDonald. What can I say...I'm a MacDonald nut.

Revolutionary Road- Richard Yates. Too realistic sometimes. Look in the mirror; those people are you.

The Blackboard Jungle- Evan Hunter. You've probably seen the movie. Read the book and dig a little deeper. Warning: It's a little talky, but not bad.

The Score- Richard Stark. Parker has no regrets. A runaway train who's always, always in control.

The Frontiersmen- Allan W. Eckert. Hard men living in hard, hard world. But free.

Anatomy of a Murder- Robert Traver. Just picked this up and remember the old movie well. Here's hoping the book delves deeper into the violence and sex- that's what this boy's talkin' 'bout!

Not what you'd call your "who's who" of crime fiction, but fuck that. I like writing that provokes something in me, helps me see things in a new light. Don't be a chump. Don't tie yourself down. Read outside the box and then go write your best work ever. You only spin around this globe once.

See ya on the flip.