Ah, Life!

Things are still sliding into a normal behavior, but that doesn’t mean we are heading back to the way things were. I think we can wave goodbye to all of that. I’m glad some things and methods of behavior, have gone on to never, never land, but we need a sense of normalcy. Don’t you agree? There is always room for improvement. Always that. However, there are some things that I’m sorry to see fade away—like respect for fundamental law and order.

There have always been indiscriminate assholes, sure. Like Voltaire, we can all imagine a perfect utopia, but there can never be a foolproof anything. The culture we had wasn’t ideal, and I suppose there needed to be a cleaning of sorts, but not an annihilation of all the procedures we used. If those things continue as they have been, we will find many more problems popping up that were brought to life because of the house cleaning.

Enough of that.

I have been working hard these last few weeks. I am close to sending my Metaphysical book off. It’s a different flavor of writing for me, non-fiction. I am partial to fiction, but a change of pace is good. Right? I think so.

In this new work, I explain how I view everything. That sounds like a lot. Doesn’t it? I suppose it is if you look at every, single, minuscule thing. It’s not, however, if you look at how those tiny things work and are connected.

I think everyone can benefit from the book. It will broaden horizons. Who knows? You may find something interesting in it. I’ll bet you will.

The closer I get to being done with it, the more excited I become. Anxious too.
I am also typing like crazy on my next thriller. It, like the one before, continues the Factor series. I’m about halfway through the rough draft.

I don’t know if I ever mentioned it, but the first draft always holds an unusual excitement for me. That’s because when I work it through, that is when I find out what happens. It’s much like the first time you read a book, and you see how the plot folds, bends, and develops. My fingers seem to control themselves when it comes to that. My subconscious must drive it. Anyway, I always find surprises at this stage.

Another thing is the way my characters behave. They control the story much more than I. It sounds I know like the page is possessed, and the little beings that I create start dancing, squirming, plotting, murdering, and everything else that non-housebroken bastards do. Like I have no control over them. Of course, I do, but It is tough to make a character do something it would not do. Its limit could be like the supposed limit of hypnotizing, and you can’t make someone do something against their nature.

Anyway, these are some of the many things that make writing fun.
Of course, the most exciting thing is when someone says, “Hey, I read your book.” Okay, let me back up from that. That sentence is scary as shit. The fun comes after the next sentence, which sounds like, “Yeah, and I loved it!”

What makes the first sentence so scary is sometimes the next utterance sounds like, “Yeah, and it sucked more than the galactic black hole that doesn’t even let light escape!” Okay, I made have exagerated that last part, but that’s what many authors hear in their mind if there is even the slightest pause after, “I read your book.” Or, if there is no pause and they say, “Yeah, it was all right. It wasn’t what I expected.”

Don’t get me wrong. We need to know if it fell short of expectations so that we can fix the next one. It’s like getting a shot in the ass. If it must happen, okay, but you know damn well it’s going to hurt like a bitch. Know what I mean? You’re still getting the shot because you need it, but it doesn’t mean you will like it.

Man, I had a shot once while I was in the Army. It took place on an Air Force base, and the injection I received hurt so bad it locked my hip up for a day. No, this isn’t a metaphor. It happened. And I can’t blame the medical worker in the least, because, believe it or not, I was an asshole that day. The little darling smiled as she stuck it to me.

Now, let’s go back to the feedback.

I have had bad reviews before, and they are necessary to grow as a writer. But again, I didn’t like it.

Hey, you know if everyone out there read my books, there might be able to be lots of people who would have a good time. I include myself. But I’m also sure there would be several people who wouldn’t like what I wrote. What do you think? Perhaps?

Oh well, let’s get back too life. I know I said I’ve been typing like crazy on my next book, but I have to tell you my latest book is at a stalemate. There is no writer’s block involved. I know exactly how to proceed, even have the action in the next few chapters firmly in mind, enough to write and let the characters slug, stab, or shoot it out anyway. What stops me from writing is my progeny. You bet. The little fun-seekers try all of the silly things that we did and were lucky enough to live through. And why shouldn’t they? Four of them have my genes, enough said there, and the other six all belong to the human race too. Do you know anyone that wasn’t lucky to live through childhood?

Some of the things tried are minor irritations; when I’m concentrating and one or more of them tap dance their fingers on my shoulder with an insanely off the wall question. Something like Bugs Bunny asking, “What’s up, Doc?” If you take more than one kid (the ten I have span in age from four to sixteen) each asking an innocuous question on their own, it boils down to quite a sum of unique distractions in which I have to tear my thoughts away from what I want to do and perform a task or explain something.

One of them just ran up to me holding her finger with a river of blood running from it. Yep, they cut it really bad. They won’t loose the digit, but it’ll never look the same. Now, what was I saying? Yeah. We were all lucky to survive.

The ironic thing about being interupted by all of them is that to help them I end up doing something I love to do, at the expense of not doing what I love to do.

Crazy? Absolutely. I never said my life was sane. Now, did I?

I have read in several places that claim for a writer to be any good at what they do, they have to have a real problem to overcome, like alcohol, or severe depression, or perhaps anxiety. I don’t have those, well maybe one or two, but they don’t keep me from writing. What does stop me is my beautiful family, and that includes my older children that have my grandchildren as much as these!

I guess in the run of life it doesn’t matter. I will still put words to paper, and I will continue to send things off to editors, agents, and publishers, and I will always see something that we as humans overlook, either on purpose or by accident, which activates a compulsion to jot it down. I guess things work just right.

Ah! A kiss on the cheek from my littlest just now. Isn’t that fancy?

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