David Cranmer's Blog, page 99

BEAT to a PULP: ROUND TWO Is Out!

Smoke 'em if you got 'em, then set your jaw and steel your stance, 'cause BEAT to a PULP: Round Two is here! It's all meat, no filler in this red-raw-and-oozing collection of twenty-nine tales of pure pulp action. You'll find aliens, gangsters, drifters, mountain men, private dicks, gun molls, loners, misfits, drunks, thugs, booze-hounds, and more, all brawling in the pages of Round Two. And that's just for starters.

Seething with left-hooks, uppercuts, kidney shots, and gut-punches aplenty, this powerhouse compilation doles out the genres, from hardboiled crime, western, and noir to sci-fi, fantasy, literary, horror, and more.

Round Two covers all-new ground with offerings from a gang of tried-and-true heavyweights and inspired up-and-comers, all savvy purveyors of pulp at the top of their game. Haymakers include a Hemingway pastiche by famed mystery author Bill Pronzini, a stunning Chandler homage by Hard Case Crime kingpin Charles Ardai, a post-war tale with a twist from James Reasoner, a zombie-horror nightmare by Bill Crider, and even more blows to the temple from such hotshots as Glenn Gray, Patricia Abbott, Chris F. Holm, Vicki Hendricks, Sean Chercover, the legendary Vin Packer, and more, more, more!

Feel up to it? Then climb back in the ring. No lines, no waiting if you order your copy of BEAT to a PULP: Round Two NOW through CreateSpace. And in about a week, it will be available at Amazon. Kindle eBook to follow shortly.

The Proof is in the Box

Have you ever had that sensation of extreme exhilaration? The kind that doesn't go away for days? That's how I feel when a proof of a new book arrives in the mail. Seeing that book, picking it up and leafing through it for the first time--I imagine it's comparable to my daughter's pride in completing a task on her very own and her joy in seeing the cat and squealing "m-ow" for the umpteenth time.
Anyway, here's the arrival of BEAT to a PULP: ROUND TWO proof. Over the next few days, we'll be going through it one last time.

Hardboiled Wins A Spinetingler!

BEAT to a PULP: HARDBOILED won the 2012 Spinetingler Award for Best Anthology!! Thanks to all the incredibly talented writers involved with HARDBOILED and Scott D. Parker for his masterful hand in editing. And, as always, Little d for formatting and putting the cover together.

In The City of Brotherly Love

We took I-81 S to I-476 E, bound for The City of Brotherly Love. “We” consisted of me, my charmers and my sister who had a surgery appointment at the Wills Eye Institute, one of the top hospitals in the area for that specialty. I was glad to lend a helping hand to my sister, and I was also excited to be in Philly again after all these years. Excited, but apprehensive. Last time I was there, about ten years ago, I had to fight my way out hanging onto a runaway semi truck ... but that made-up tale is for another time.

We arrived the day before the surgery, and had booked rooms at the Holiday Inn Express on Walnut Street. As I steered the car into the parking garage, I hear, “STOP!” An older black gentleman was running after me. I’ve learned to obey when someone yells at me, so I braked. He looked a little upset and I don’t blame him. Turns out I tried to go the wrong way on the ramp, but he also needed to know how long we’d be staying so he could tell me to park on Level 5.

I thanked him, and we went on our way.

We checked in and carried our bags to the 17th floor of the 20 story building. Ava was fascinated by altitude and the cityscape surrounding us—the buildings towering above us, the surrounding neighbors and birds at eye level, and the cars and people shuffling below like tiny bugs.

Little d reminded me how much she enjoys cities, and I agree. To a point. Nice to get anything you want whenever, etc. But I’m more of a slower pace of life kinda guy.

Tired as we were, we managed to publish the latest Pulp of the Week at BEAT to a PULP while my daughter kept busy pulling out every tissue from the dispenser in the sink vanity then “organizing” them on the floor.

For the two days we were there, we walked the four blocks between the hotel and the eye center. It was a small slice of Philly but we enjoyed the few sights we saw and also interacting with the people. Motorcycle Lady in the elevator, Cashier Girl at Five Guys who suggested Ava should be in baby magazines, Best Bedside Manner Doctor and Nurse Nice at the hospital, Hotel Front Desk Clerk, etc.

If I had based my view of this majestic city on the first visit I would have ranked it rather low but—and here I go with my infamous analogies—Abraham Lincoln once said, “I don't like that man. I must get to know him better.” Switch man for city and him for it and those are my thoughts on Philly. I got to know the city a little better and I’m a fan.

Have you been to Philadelphia? Your thoughts? Or what city would you recommend?

Something Missing

It's six at night and I'm setting the alarm clock for 4:30 a.m. I should be writing but nothing is flowing--not even shoddy stuff. I call my charmers, who are visiting Denise's parents, and they are doing well. Little d puts me on the speaker phone and I talk to Ava for a few prized minutes, enough to say the bedtime prayer that my mom taught me: In my little bed I lie. Heavenly Father hear my cry. Lord protect Ava Elyse through the night. Bring her safe to morning light. Amen. God bless everybody. A few more words then I say goodnight.

Damn, I miss them.

I order season three of ARCHER on my Kindle Fire and watch the episode with Burt Reynolds. Funny as H-E-double-hockey-sticks. After, I read a chapter of Charles Bukowski's WOMEN but I don't feel like reading. Not Hank's fault, I'm just read out for the day. A magazine on the stand features Rihanna on the cover. I like her. Pretty face and a helluva voice. Looks like she's starring in a movie and I wonder why so many singers try their hand at acting? The natural evolution of pop stardom?

I haven't checked my book sales in awhile. Is there a chance I've sold a few zillion titles and can pack it in and travel to my girls?

Nope. 

I've sold a little over a thousand in twenty-one days. Not bad but considering I get thirty-five cents a book, I'll keep the day job. No complaints, mind you. Just reality.

Maybe I'll watch another episode of Archer.

I hope your weekend is going well. I'd love to hear what everybody is doing.

With Them

No matter what else is going on, everything is better when I'm with them.

The Homeless Woman and the Chickadee Bitches

Grocery day has turned into a smooth-operating routine for me and my wife. I drive and stay in the car with my littlest charmer—she always falls asleep in her car seat on the way—while the original charmer does the shopping. This gives me a quiet moment to catch up on some reading so I never leave home without a book in tow.

We usually go to the next town over to the super mart where poor folks can still get a deal or two on food. Most of the time, Ava sleeps soundly because I've learned to park far away from the hustle and bustle where people are slamming car doors and carts into the return racks, they're locking their vehicles with that annoying remote chirp, or they've left behind a dog to yippity-yap the entire time they're in the store. Any of which wakes my baby up, then she doesn't get the rest she needs and I don't get to my latest read.

On a recent trip, I tucked us away at the quiet end of a row in the corner of the lot, facing the store so that I can watch for my wife when she's done shopping. It's an unseasonably beautiful day for March, and I have my window open to enjoy some fresh air. As I'm licking a finger and turning the page, I see a woman approach my lone outpost. She is pushing a grocery cart overflowing with what appears to be bottles and an assortment of oddities. She is the picture of a homeless woman: rumpled layers of raggedy clothes, no shoes but her feet were wrapped with some gauzy cloth, and scraggly drab hair frizzing out from under a frumpy garden-style hat. She's hefty and weathered and reminds me a bit of Anne Ramsey/Momma from the movie Throw Momma from the Train but with less teeth.

She stops by my open window.

"Can you spare a couple of bucks?" she says brusquely.

"Sorry, I don't have any cash on me."

She looks at my car and I can sense she believes me. I'm scrunched up in a 1990 Honda Civic hatchback.

"Change?"

"Yeah, sure." I reach into the cup holder that's overflowing with quarters, dimes, nickels, and pennies—I had been meaning to clean it out for months anyhow. She takes a handful that I offer and pours it into the right front pocket of her coat. She seems to soften a bit and says thanks.

She takes a hand off her cart and places it on the car window frame, peering in. "Good book?"

I turn the cover her way. She reads, "Post Office. You're reading about the post office?" Her curled up lip makes me grin.

"It's a funny book so far."

"Why you reading here?"

I point to the back seat with my thumb. "My baby girl is getting some rest. My wife's inside shopping."

She softens more. "Oh, I didn't see her back there. What a sweetheart. What's her name?"

"Ava."

"Oh, like the actress?"

"Yep."

"Why I haven't thought of her in years. I liked her in Casablanca."

There's a quick pause while I decide if I should correct her film mistake. I decide not to, and she goes back to the book. "Geez, the post office. What folks read these days. Enjoy your book," she says with a tone of sarcasm.

And with that, she wheels her cart around and begins making her way to the next row over when she's almost struck by a car with two teenage girls racing for an open space close to the store. I've seen close calls in my life but this near-miss is by a nose hair, and I'm sure if it wasn't for the surprisingly flash reflexes of the homeless woman, these girls would have run her down. In a typical it's-not-my-fault response, the girl's lay on the horn while a stream of expletives is unleashed by Homeless Woman.

The girls park and jump out of daddy's car with their perfect hair and tan bods. As they wiggle their way into the store, they look back over their shoulders and flip the bird at Homeless Woman. I'm betting these two have never considered they could be in the same shoes, or cloth, one fine day, but I suppose they're still a couple divorces and several kids from that possibility.

I step out of my car and ask, "Are you alright?"

"Fine. Those little chickadee bitches almost killed me."

"Yeah, I saw that."

"Wouldn't they be surprised if I was waiting for them by their car when they came out. They wouldn't expect that, now would they?"

"I bet not, but I'm sure you don't want any trouble either."

A grin now crosses her face, "Maybe I do." And she turns and leaves.

I see my wife pushing a full cart my way, and I go open the back hatch to load the groceries. I point out my new parking lot friend who's now in the pedestrian walkway directly across from where the little chickadee bitches parked—she's waiting for them—and as we pull away, I begin telling my wife the story. Two weeks later as I think back on it, I hope that Homeless Woman gave them hell.

Tattoo Them

You'd think thegeneration, or maybe even two, before mine would be comfortable with seeingtattoos. I saw my first tattoo at eight years old when an uncle stopped bysporting a  topless woman named Tilda on his bicep. Since I was still afew years away from seeing boobs in the flesh, or at least in the pages of amagazine, I remember thinking tattoos were pretty neato. I was also the kind ofwizened kid who knew tattoos were not for me, but I digress. My point beingtattoos have been popular for at least forty years, maybe longer, to the pointwhere they have become mainstream. Certainly the stigma once associated withbody art has disappeared. Or has it?

Fast forward to a story I heard the other day from myniece. She's twenty and has it together -- she's in college and has workedas a waitress for three years at a fancy four-star restaurant. Recently, shewas harassed while waiting a table of two couples who went out of their way totell her she would never get a decent job with graffiti on her body. (Sidebar:Her tattoos are very tasteful and are easily covered by a blouse, but it waswarm this particular day and the body art was noticeable.) So these diningbuffoons take her to task and ask her if she thinks she'll ever get anywhere inthe professional world with tattoos on her body. Now my niece has a lot ofclass and tried to be polite, answering their lame questions. As the couplescontinued to heckle her, she mentioned she knew several people who have tattoosand respectable jobs. They pressed for details as to what kind ofprofessions and when she replied, they wrinkled their noses and scoffed. Nice,huh?

I asked myniece how old these jackanapes were. About sixty, she said which took me aback.I thought for sure they'd be 110. But sixty!? Seems odd for some of that generation tobe so archaic in thought. Apparently these folks, who also complained about thefood, had a bone to pick.

Either way,I told her if they stopped in again to give me a call and I'd verbally beatthem to a pulp.

Lying To Mom

I must have had the one-thousand yard stare that late November night. I was sitting in my dad's chair -- a blue recliner where he had spent the last years of his life whittling away the days after a massive stroke -- when my mother asked me, "What's wrong, David?"

Cable news blared in the background as she sat on the couch across from me. I raised my voice so she'd hear me above the noise, not to mention her hearing loss.

"Nothing, Mom." I answered, monotone. That wasn't true. You see, my mom's in the middle-to-late stage of dementia, and the bad days had outweighed the good, and there seemed to be little to look forward to. But that night, I detected a moment of clarity about her, a moment of lucidity in a brain that had been experiencing too many clouds. My "mission," for the family, was a tough one but I saw my opportunity.

"Is it work?" she asked.

"No. I'm not working, Mom. I'm outta work."

She pointed to the manuscript in my lap -- BEAT to a PULP: Round Two with my trusty red pen in hand. "Isn't that work?"

"This is a new book I'm working on. But I'm talking about the day job -- the one that pays the bills."

"Oh, the one where you travel."

"Yeah, that one."

"Then why are you here and not at work if you have bills to pay?"

"To take care of you, Mom. You can't live alone anymore. We've talked about this many times."

That last line opened up an explosive can of worms. She looked perplexed and I explained she has severe memory loss. She couldn't accept it and wanted examples which I gave to her in excruciating detail for the umpteenth time. We talked in circles for close to an hour. Normally she'd get defensive and rebel, but that night she seemed to understand something's wrong with her. I sensed the Good Lord was shining a light and I plunged head-first into the mire to carry out my mission. I had taken time off from work to keep her safe from herself, all the while trying to get her to go either into a nursing home or to live with her daughter who's a retired nurse. I couldn't screw up this opportunity. I couldn't be out of work forever. I had a 6-month-old baby girl to raise. Too much is on the table, old son.

"I don't want to go in a home," she said defiantly.

"I know, Mom. I know. Then I have to stay here with you."

After a time, she said with a tremble, "I never wanted to hurt you, David. I never wanted to cause you any pain."

I wanted to breakdown with that heartfelt comment -- it will be burned into my conscience forever.

But I held myself together, and I asked her if she'd be willing to go to my sister's several states away for the winter. She said she'd do it for me, so I didn't waste a second. I jumped up to grab the phone.

She stopped me. "David, I will be able to come back home after winter is over, right?"

I knew what I had to do to protect my mom. I had to get her out of her home by any means necessary. I lied to my mother -- the one who taught me to always tell the truth. I fucking hated it. But I couldn't be honest or she'd never leave. "Yes, Mom. You will be able to come back."

She nodded, and I placed the call.

Now, three months later, every time the phone rings, I cringe. Because when it's Mom, she wants to know when I'm coming to get her. Before all this, I used to call her every day, but now the calls are maybe once a week, and our conversations usually end in frustration for her and deep sadness on my part. I try to remind myself that I did the right thing. This disease doesn't stop for anyone. Sometimes she can almost fool me on the phone that everything is alright, but then she forgets my dad ... "I never heard that name before," she'll tell me. Then a few moments later, she'll ask again when she's coming home. She hasn't forgotten that promise. A cruel twist of fate has her remembering my promise. The one time I lied to her. But if she remembers my promise, then she remembers me.

Maybe that's not such a bad thing.

My Writing Hero Would Hate My Guts

When asked which dead writer's work I would take with me to that desolate island, I said it'd have to be Ernest Hemingway. But I wouldn't need his whole catalog. Just The Nick Adams Stories, A Moveable Feast, The Old Man and the Sea, and his dispatches. You see, I think Papa was a better short story writer and journalist than novelist. Plus I'm not a huge fan of stories about bull-fighting, though many of his short stories touch on it. Why is he a writing hero of mine? Well, I'm partial to his sparing use of words and understated style.

Then my thoughts turned to the man himself, and I realized my writing hero and I would have very little in common--except for a shared interest in Ava Gardner. In fact, if we were stranded together, he'd probably take a great disliking to me. Maybe not at first, but the above opinion about his novels and the fact that I find his forced machismo unnecessary might just ruffle his feathers. Nor would I make a good drinking buddy for him as I'm not inclined to be three-sheets-to-the-wind every morning and every night. Of course, he could counter with the fact he was a war hero and won the Pulitzer Prize, so who the hell am I to critique him? I'm just a pigeon pecking at a statue, right? So I guess it's best I was born well-after he pulled the trigger.

How about you? Do you think you and your (writing) hero would get along if you could meet her/him in person? Maybe you already have. I'd be curious to hear how that went.