Billy Ray Chitwood's Blog, page 35
December 17, 2012
"Satan's Song - A Bailey Crane Mystery" (Book 2) - AN EXCERPT
Posted on December 17, 2012 by billyraychitwood
“Satan’s Song – A Bailey Crane Mystery” (Book 2) is part of the five-book ‘Bailey Crane Mystery Series’. The book was inspired by a horrific murder in Phoenix, Arizona some years ago. The details in the newspapers of the day stunned me, and my imagination came up with all sorts of scenarios for the gruesome homicide. So far as I know, the murder was never solved… Here is the ‘Prologue’ to the book.
PROLOGUE
‘Sunday Morning Coming Down!’
The line from the song stayed with her long after the radio was turned off. The words conveyed the mood that held her captive.
‘Sunday Morning Coming Down!’
All of her Sunday was ‘coming down.’ She had talked long distance to her mom in Ohio, had feigned good cheer, and had felt even more desperate when they disconnected. She had read the comics section of the paper, usually an uplifting experience. Not today. She had exercised on the carpet, doing push-ups and deep knee bends. She was energized for only a few minutes, and it hit again.
A heavy depression consumed her Sunday in large chunks, a visceral displacement, much like that long ago summer camp experience … No! She must not dwell on that bittersweet summer camp.
She was lonely, sad, locked within a body and mind that would not push away the black oppression. The blue sky and sun that came to her through the big window in the living room added little relief.
So the day had gone. Sunday had gone.
It had been a mistake to stay in Phoenix. The city was too big, too unfriendly. She missed her family and friends in Steubenville, the familiar and the rote activities she had once seen as shackles.
The irony of the thought brought an obscure smile, and the wonderful memories flashed before her: barbecues in the expansive back yard, leaves on the big trees rustling in the wind; Saturday movie matinees, sitting, giggling, in the middle rows, throwing popcorn kernels at unsuspecting boys; the overnight stay-overs, pajama parties, pillow fights; long gossipy talks about boys long into the early morning; cheer leading at the basketball and football games, flirting with players on the sideline benches; homemade ice cream, cold watermelons, sweet and juicy, on summer Sundays …
On and on the memories flashed, and her black mood deepened, lingered like a soggy wet blanket that clung, would not be loosened and discarded. She was here in Phoenix, in a desert city swirling with an ugly gray smog, indifference, crime. She was in an urban sprawl of people from every conceivable cultural, ethnic, and racial mix. She was in a city that frightened her, a city that spawned a subliminal despair at her core of being. She did not like what she was becoming. This darkness of mood did not fit her personality. She was never one to mope around, to engage in self-pity. She tried always to avoid people like that. She was beginning to turn inward, to dislike herself.
Perhaps Phoenix was only the symptom and not the cause of this recent gloom. Perhaps there were other more subtle stirrings which she could not identify.
Strange, now, in remembering how the city had first excited her. Phoenix had been so different from anything she had known in Steubenville, like visiting one of those desert oases she had read about in school. She had found the southwest lore intriguing Sand entertaining. It had been like living out all the old fantasies from western movies she had seen with her family and friends.
There had been a visit to the Superstition Mountains where she had wanted to search for the legendary Lost Dutchman’s gold.
There had been the trip to Picacho Peak and to old Tucson where so many of the cowboy movies were made.
There had been old Mexico where she had been shocked by the poverty and the primitive conditions, but had somehow been drawn to its quaint and sleepy culture.
She had seen the spectacular Grand Canyon, stood above the majestic shadows and golden hues of its vertical walls, looked in awe across the vast space as the gentle winds touched her face.
She had decided to stay in Phoenix. There was so much to see, so much to do, in this lovely state. Her commitment to stay was nonetheless not quite one hundred per cent.
She had gotten a job and moved into her boyfriend’s apartment at Canyon Way. The Canyon Way Apartment complex was near the lovely Encanto Park, where she quickly made it a daily ritual to bike ride through its lush and placid grounds. Biking had become a therapy for her. It made her muscles relax and made her mind more malleable to positive thinking.
Her new life had been good for a few months. Then the city began to gnaw at her nerves. The transition had been a delicate and imprecise thing to analyze. There were murders, rapes, and robberies reported everyday on the television news. Crime seemed to be evenly distributed among Phoenix’s multicultural mix. There seemed to be anger everywhere, shown through simple senseless acts of vandalism, random mayhem, and overt discourtesies.
For a small Ohio town girl, the big city had created an inner turmoil. Where there had been a quiet pastoral peace, there was now a ‘salad bowl’ madness. It was getting to her, and she was getting to her boyfriend.
Vince had tried to lift the torpid mood he had seen developing over the past weeks but he had not been successful. Now he was getting impatient and cross with her. They had argued earlier in the morning and had settled into a silent separate space for sulking and guilt trips.
Around 7:00 on Sunday evening Della pulled her yellow Diamond Back mountain bike from its place on the small second floor apartment balcony, announced that she was going for a ride. It was a twenty-six inch man’s bike, but Della was a tall girl and preferred it to a woman’s bike.
Bad moods were rare for Della, but a bike ride through Encanto Park would help diminish her funk. The hard pumping on the pedals had a therapeutic effect on her. With the sweat of a strenuous bike ride would come a soothing calm. She needed something to break this ugly lethargy.
Della walked her bike down the metal and stone stairwell and out onto 19th Avenue. She turned south on 19th after leaving the apartment complex, still walking her bike. After a few blocks she left the sidewalk and entered Encanto Park. From a running start she got on her bike, pedaled vigorously southward and eastward, followed the outer edge of the Encanto Municipal Golf Course. She could hear water sounds from the lake and she felt the cool November wind on her face. She heard the insect noises of the night and thought again about her family and friends in Steubenville.
The night sky was unusually murky, and she wished the city would do something about the poor lighting along the bike path. There had been some talk from city officials that improvements were going to be made around the park but no action had been taken. Della had ridden her bike at night and she felt no sense of fear. The depth of darkness she encountered this night was simply an extension of her mood. She would ride it off.
She stood and pumped the pedals expending great effort, moving swiftly down the meandering path toward the main entrance to the park. When she reached the southernmost perimeter she turned and sped back north along the same path. The sweet smell of damp grass filled her nostrils, reminding her again of Steubenville and home.
She felt the sweat on her face and in the cleavage of her breasts. There was a rather pleasant chilling sensation throughout her body, and she was aware of a mood shift. Her mind was now clearing, and she thought of the wasteful negative stupor of the day. She was young and impatient. She must give her new life a chance. She had a whole world ahead of her. She must not get depressed and take it out on Vince. He really wanted her to be happy. She was eager to get back to the apartment and apologize.
It appeared she had the bike path all to herself. She relaxed. She sat and pedaled easily. Occasionally she just coasted. She was almost back to 19th Avenue. There was approximately one quarter mile left. She had covered nearly four miles in very fast time, and she was coming to the final turn before she hit a straightaway to 19th Avenue. She was just coming parallel on her right with a long row of eucalyptus trees. She heard again the sounds of the lake off to her left and the steady shriek of crickets.
She saw a black blur of movement about fifty yards ahead. Someone was standing next to a tall palm tree, or leaning against it. It appeared to be someone in bulky clothes, maybe someone wearing a large overcoat. That someone was stepping out onto the path in front of her …
There was a quick motion of arm and hand, and glittering particles, like fireflies, appeared in the darkness in front of her. There were flashing movements as the arms made arcing turns of bright, diamond-like specks of light.
Della instinctively steered the bike to the left side of the wide path, a nervous tingle spreading just below her skin. Serious adrenaline now raced through her and a fast rising fear gripped her. The fear lodged in her throat. The flashing movement was coming at her, and she could not turn the bike fast enough to avoid it. Like a video tape moving fast forward, it all happened so quickly. Her warm thoughts of making up with Vince had preoccupied her and slowed her reflexes. The fear and adrenaline gave way to frenzy, her mind splintering with delirious patterns. The panic coursed through her body like a hundred simultaneous bee stings, and the inner surge seized her in a near paralytic grip.
The first sweeping blow caught Della on the neck, lifting and holding her in midair suspension, presenting an odd spectral silhouette against the backdrop of night. Her bike rolled clumsily on and crashed a few feet ahead on the gravel border lining the path.
Incredibly, Della did not appear to die from the initial slash. With a sad reflexive tremble of body, she seemed to be fighting her attacker, like a weak, cumbersome puppet on a string. Her arms reached out to grab, to scratch, to hit, but it was only a slow grotesque enactment, born of an atavistic will to live. It was a primal instinct to survive, a mind-muscle-soul reaction to death.
The attacker was now above her, hovering like a dark cumulus cloud, a gray indefinite shape, spitting angry lightning bolts.
For Della Erlitz, death was most gruesome, but mercifully instantaneous.
The savagery on Della Erlitz body was not finished. Unmindful, uncaring, that death had already come, the killer continued to slash and to mutter incoherent obscenities. The maniacal perversion continued until the young woman’s head was totally severed. The killer then wrapped the head in a thin sheet of plastic and placed it in a tote bag. The body was further defiled by a monstrous craving the sane and civilized world could not hope to fathom.
Finally, the satanic craving was sated. The killer moved the body some seventy feet from the bike path in the direction of the eucalyptus trees. Della’s blood soaked clothes were cut away and piled next to the curled, stiff fingers of her left hand. The killer placed the tote bag over the handlebars of Della’s yellow bike and rode away.
The killer started north on the bike path, stopped to consider a thought, hesitated, then turned around and headed back south.
Passing near the headless body, the killer began to whistle a soft and strangely rhapsodic melody.
END OF EXCERPT.
Should you wish to read more of “Satan’s Song – A Bailey Crane Mystery” (Book 2), please visit my website/blog ‘Home Page’ and scroll down through my books. You will find ordering information after the book.
http://www.billyraychitwood.weebly.com (My main website – There is also a blog with all my posts, some book reviews, and bio info.)
Other links that might be of interest:
http://www.about.me/brchitwood (A brief bio sketch and further links.)
http://www.thefinalcurtain1.wordpress... (A blog site where you can follow all my posts)
Http://www.goo.gl/fuxUA (My site at ‘Independent Author Network’ which previews my books and gives links.)
You can follow me on twitter.com
“Satan’s Song – A Bailey Crane Mystery” (Book 2) is part of the five-book ‘Bailey Crane Mystery Series’. The book was inspired by a horrific murder in Phoenix, Arizona some years ago. The details in the newspapers of the day stunned me, and my imagination came up with all sorts of scenarios for the gruesome homicide. So far as I know, the murder was never solved… Here is the ‘Prologue’ to the book.
PROLOGUE
‘Sunday Morning Coming Down!’
The line from the song stayed with her long after the radio was turned off. The words conveyed the mood that held her captive.
‘Sunday Morning Coming Down!’
All of her Sunday was ‘coming down.’ She had talked long distance to her mom in Ohio, had feigned good cheer, and had felt even more desperate when they disconnected. She had read the comics section of the paper, usually an uplifting experience. Not today. She had exercised on the carpet, doing push-ups and deep knee bends. She was energized for only a few minutes, and it hit again.
A heavy depression consumed her Sunday in large chunks, a visceral displacement, much like that long ago summer camp experience … No! She must not dwell on that bittersweet summer camp.
She was lonely, sad, locked within a body and mind that would not push away the black oppression. The blue sky and sun that came to her through the big window in the living room added little relief.
So the day had gone. Sunday had gone.
It had been a mistake to stay in Phoenix. The city was too big, too unfriendly. She missed her family and friends in Steubenville, the familiar and the rote activities she had once seen as shackles.
The irony of the thought brought an obscure smile, and the wonderful memories flashed before her: barbecues in the expansive back yard, leaves on the big trees rustling in the wind; Saturday movie matinees, sitting, giggling, in the middle rows, throwing popcorn kernels at unsuspecting boys; the overnight stay-overs, pajama parties, pillow fights; long gossipy talks about boys long into the early morning; cheer leading at the basketball and football games, flirting with players on the sideline benches; homemade ice cream, cold watermelons, sweet and juicy, on summer Sundays …
On and on the memories flashed, and her black mood deepened, lingered like a soggy wet blanket that clung, would not be loosened and discarded. She was here in Phoenix, in a desert city swirling with an ugly gray smog, indifference, crime. She was in an urban sprawl of people from every conceivable cultural, ethnic, and racial mix. She was in a city that frightened her, a city that spawned a subliminal despair at her core of being. She did not like what she was becoming. This darkness of mood did not fit her personality. She was never one to mope around, to engage in self-pity. She tried always to avoid people like that. She was beginning to turn inward, to dislike herself.
Perhaps Phoenix was only the symptom and not the cause of this recent gloom. Perhaps there were other more subtle stirrings which she could not identify.
Strange, now, in remembering how the city had first excited her. Phoenix had been so different from anything she had known in Steubenville, like visiting one of those desert oases she had read about in school. She had found the southwest lore intriguing Sand entertaining. It had been like living out all the old fantasies from western movies she had seen with her family and friends.
There had been a visit to the Superstition Mountains where she had wanted to search for the legendary Lost Dutchman’s gold.
There had been the trip to Picacho Peak and to old Tucson where so many of the cowboy movies were made.
There had been old Mexico where she had been shocked by the poverty and the primitive conditions, but had somehow been drawn to its quaint and sleepy culture.
She had seen the spectacular Grand Canyon, stood above the majestic shadows and golden hues of its vertical walls, looked in awe across the vast space as the gentle winds touched her face.
She had decided to stay in Phoenix. There was so much to see, so much to do, in this lovely state. Her commitment to stay was nonetheless not quite one hundred per cent.
She had gotten a job and moved into her boyfriend’s apartment at Canyon Way. The Canyon Way Apartment complex was near the lovely Encanto Park, where she quickly made it a daily ritual to bike ride through its lush and placid grounds. Biking had become a therapy for her. It made her muscles relax and made her mind more malleable to positive thinking.
Her new life had been good for a few months. Then the city began to gnaw at her nerves. The transition had been a delicate and imprecise thing to analyze. There were murders, rapes, and robberies reported everyday on the television news. Crime seemed to be evenly distributed among Phoenix’s multicultural mix. There seemed to be anger everywhere, shown through simple senseless acts of vandalism, random mayhem, and overt discourtesies.
For a small Ohio town girl, the big city had created an inner turmoil. Where there had been a quiet pastoral peace, there was now a ‘salad bowl’ madness. It was getting to her, and she was getting to her boyfriend.
Vince had tried to lift the torpid mood he had seen developing over the past weeks but he had not been successful. Now he was getting impatient and cross with her. They had argued earlier in the morning and had settled into a silent separate space for sulking and guilt trips.
Around 7:00 on Sunday evening Della pulled her yellow Diamond Back mountain bike from its place on the small second floor apartment balcony, announced that she was going for a ride. It was a twenty-six inch man’s bike, but Della was a tall girl and preferred it to a woman’s bike.
Bad moods were rare for Della, but a bike ride through Encanto Park would help diminish her funk. The hard pumping on the pedals had a therapeutic effect on her. With the sweat of a strenuous bike ride would come a soothing calm. She needed something to break this ugly lethargy.
Della walked her bike down the metal and stone stairwell and out onto 19th Avenue. She turned south on 19th after leaving the apartment complex, still walking her bike. After a few blocks she left the sidewalk and entered Encanto Park. From a running start she got on her bike, pedaled vigorously southward and eastward, followed the outer edge of the Encanto Municipal Golf Course. She could hear water sounds from the lake and she felt the cool November wind on her face. She heard the insect noises of the night and thought again about her family and friends in Steubenville.
The night sky was unusually murky, and she wished the city would do something about the poor lighting along the bike path. There had been some talk from city officials that improvements were going to be made around the park but no action had been taken. Della had ridden her bike at night and she felt no sense of fear. The depth of darkness she encountered this night was simply an extension of her mood. She would ride it off.
She stood and pumped the pedals expending great effort, moving swiftly down the meandering path toward the main entrance to the park. When she reached the southernmost perimeter she turned and sped back north along the same path. The sweet smell of damp grass filled her nostrils, reminding her again of Steubenville and home.
She felt the sweat on her face and in the cleavage of her breasts. There was a rather pleasant chilling sensation throughout her body, and she was aware of a mood shift. Her mind was now clearing, and she thought of the wasteful negative stupor of the day. She was young and impatient. She must give her new life a chance. She had a whole world ahead of her. She must not get depressed and take it out on Vince. He really wanted her to be happy. She was eager to get back to the apartment and apologize.
It appeared she had the bike path all to herself. She relaxed. She sat and pedaled easily. Occasionally she just coasted. She was almost back to 19th Avenue. There was approximately one quarter mile left. She had covered nearly four miles in very fast time, and she was coming to the final turn before she hit a straightaway to 19th Avenue. She was just coming parallel on her right with a long row of eucalyptus trees. She heard again the sounds of the lake off to her left and the steady shriek of crickets.
She saw a black blur of movement about fifty yards ahead. Someone was standing next to a tall palm tree, or leaning against it. It appeared to be someone in bulky clothes, maybe someone wearing a large overcoat. That someone was stepping out onto the path in front of her …
There was a quick motion of arm and hand, and glittering particles, like fireflies, appeared in the darkness in front of her. There were flashing movements as the arms made arcing turns of bright, diamond-like specks of light.
Della instinctively steered the bike to the left side of the wide path, a nervous tingle spreading just below her skin. Serious adrenaline now raced through her and a fast rising fear gripped her. The fear lodged in her throat. The flashing movement was coming at her, and she could not turn the bike fast enough to avoid it. Like a video tape moving fast forward, it all happened so quickly. Her warm thoughts of making up with Vince had preoccupied her and slowed her reflexes. The fear and adrenaline gave way to frenzy, her mind splintering with delirious patterns. The panic coursed through her body like a hundred simultaneous bee stings, and the inner surge seized her in a near paralytic grip.
The first sweeping blow caught Della on the neck, lifting and holding her in midair suspension, presenting an odd spectral silhouette against the backdrop of night. Her bike rolled clumsily on and crashed a few feet ahead on the gravel border lining the path.
Incredibly, Della did not appear to die from the initial slash. With a sad reflexive tremble of body, she seemed to be fighting her attacker, like a weak, cumbersome puppet on a string. Her arms reached out to grab, to scratch, to hit, but it was only a slow grotesque enactment, born of an atavistic will to live. It was a primal instinct to survive, a mind-muscle-soul reaction to death.
The attacker was now above her, hovering like a dark cumulus cloud, a gray indefinite shape, spitting angry lightning bolts.
For Della Erlitz, death was most gruesome, but mercifully instantaneous.
The savagery on Della Erlitz body was not finished. Unmindful, uncaring, that death had already come, the killer continued to slash and to mutter incoherent obscenities. The maniacal perversion continued until the young woman’s head was totally severed. The killer then wrapped the head in a thin sheet of plastic and placed it in a tote bag. The body was further defiled by a monstrous craving the sane and civilized world could not hope to fathom.
Finally, the satanic craving was sated. The killer moved the body some seventy feet from the bike path in the direction of the eucalyptus trees. Della’s blood soaked clothes were cut away and piled next to the curled, stiff fingers of her left hand. The killer placed the tote bag over the handlebars of Della’s yellow bike and rode away.
The killer started north on the bike path, stopped to consider a thought, hesitated, then turned around and headed back south.
Passing near the headless body, the killer began to whistle a soft and strangely rhapsodic melody.
END OF EXCERPT.
Should you wish to read more of “Satan’s Song – A Bailey Crane Mystery” (Book 2), please visit my website/blog ‘Home Page’ and scroll down through my books. You will find ordering information after the book.
http://www.billyraychitwood.weebly.com (My main website – There is also a blog with all my posts, some book reviews, and bio info.)
Other links that might be of interest:
http://www.about.me/brchitwood (A brief bio sketch and further links.)
http://www.thefinalcurtain1.wordpress... (A blog site where you can follow all my posts)
Http://www.goo.gl/fuxUA (My site at ‘Independent Author Network’ which previews my books and gives links.)
You can follow me on twitter.com
December 14, 2012
"An Arizona Tragedy - A Bailey Crane Mystery" (Book 1) - Excerpt
Posted on December 14, 2012 by billyraychitwood1
Liebsteraward
Remembering that a picture is worth a thousand words, I offer this excerpt from Book 1 of ‘The Bailey Crane Series’. There are five books in the series:
Book 1: “An Arizona Tragedy - A Bailey Crane Mystery” (Book 1)
Book 2: “Satan’s Song – A Bailey Crane Mystery” (Book 2)
Book 3: “The Brutus Gate – A Bailey Crane Mystery” (Book 3)
Book 4: “Murder In Pueblo Del Mar ‘ A Bailey Crane Mystery” (Book 4)
Book 5: “A Soul Defiled – A Bailey Crane Mystery” (Book 5)
“An Arizona Tragedy – A Bailey Crane Mystery” (Book 1) is rather close to my heart as it was inspired by the brutal death of a personal friend. The book is fictional but some of the crime data was taken from newspaper accounts of the day… the two principal murders (one in Phoenix, AZ and the other in Washington, DC) actually happened. The story, my words and plot lines are from my imagination, are not intended to cast aspersions on anyone as to guilt, are simply my way of paying homage to a young mother and actress who was taken so horribly from her family and friends.
Here is the excerpt from “An Arizona Tragedy – A Bailey Crane Mystery” (Book 1):
Six
Monday, September 4
Roy Martin’s private office on the twentieth floor of Arizona Bank Building afforded a panoramic northern view of Phoenix, west to east. The great sweep of space beckoned the eye to see forever, awakening the senses.
Remembering the green lush mountains of my native Tennessee and its own special beauty, my mind made its comparative notes: the incredible mountain trails of the Great Smokies, the great gorges and verdant valleys of that hill country with this spacious land of sun and desolate desert. There had been in Tennessee those chronic cloudy days to dampen a mood and marvelous sunny days that brought a multitude of fun activities. Here in the desert, there was a consistent pattern of sunny days and that spatial quality that overwhelmed my senses … made me wonder what psychological messages might be hidden in my obsessive love affair with the desert.
It was time to put the comparative thoughts away, to concentrate on the work at hand.
Spread across Roy’s small conference table were several documents, some bills, a check book, and a cup of coffee. Roy wanted me to familiarize myself with the Cooper estate, pay the bills as they came in, and catch any seeming inconsistencies that might appear. The court had approved my executor role in the estate, and I was a bit nonplussed in the sense that, here I sat, with the ability to manage a deceased man’s assets, to have legal authority to write checks, even, made out to myself. It was all rather new for me, and, in some respects, a bit daunting.
At the moment I was scanning a limited partnership printout, a real estate transaction that involved some land west of Phoenix. My eyes stopped abruptly when they encountered the name of Steve Langford. He was listed on the document as a general partner. There was that annoying, tantalizing thought again. Just a coincidence perhaps, but one that sent a mild shock wave through me. All the thought given to Cathy’s murder and Steve Langford, and there in front of me is his name on the Cooper document. It had to be no big deal. No fateful nonsense. It was just a stupid coincidence.
The discovery had most definitely gotten my attention, and, because I knew nothing about the technical aspects of a real estate limited partnership, I made a note to ask Roy for an explanation. At the moment he was in Lenny’s private office. This could wait.
There were some bills which needed to be paid, so I wrote out the checks, signed them, and put them in the proper envelopes along with the billing. There were some sizable funds also to be deposited to the estate. The deposit slips were prepared. Then, I turned my attention to other papers relative to the estate. There was nothing unusual, nothing that appeared inconsistent to me. In fact, I was impressed with the wise scope of the Cooper portfolio, even envied the magnitude of the estate and the sound management that had been given.
This whole business made me do some wishful thinking. Maybe one day my own estate would be of such size and worth. There were now only a few bucks in savings, a little raw land, and an annuity. My spending was too spontaneous and reckless, too much devoted to living the good life. This Cooper guy knew what he was doing. He was big time wealthy. My financial situation was okay and would get better, but Mr. Cooper did impress me with his business acumen.
Hey, I thought, that’s why they make ‘thirty-one flavors.’ Some people were successful as bankers, financiers, entrepreneurs, and workaholics. Some were like me: didn’t overdo the ‘work thing;’ left some time, lots of time, for fun and frivolity; worked just enough to make those ends meet. People like me did a considerable amount of procrastination, and we did a lot of daydreaming. Perhaps it was a phase people like me went through. One day, there would likely be some second guessing: why, oh, why didn’t I do this or that? Hopefully, not. Some of us have to smell those flowers.
There was always a price paid for what one did … someone very important must have said that. The corporate CEO works sixteen hours a day for twenty years to be on top of the heap, then discovers his kids are grown and he has an all of a sudden urge to do things that would have been better done twenty years ago. Perspective must not uniquely mean a mental view that fits all sizes. Perspective must be relative to a person’s time and place, the DNA, environment … oh, Bailey-boy, my alter ego speaks, please, stop with the philosophical digression, already!
The Cooper estate business had me thinking too much. Knowing myself, twenty years from now, I’ll still be full of my bible belt guilt, second guessing my choices, and still making a goodly share of goofs. Just what flavor is that? Vanilla? Strawberry? Pistachio? It is what it is!
The office door opened and closed. Roy sat next to me at the conference table and asked how I was doing.
“Doing fine. This is all just a little new to me … makes me think too much. Did have a little shock a moment ago when I saw Steve Langford’s name on one of these real estate limited partnership documents. Been doing so much thinking about Cathy and Steve, it was just a strange coincidence.”
“Well, that’s his business,” Roy responded. “He does land deals and other kinds of syndication. He’s really a wheeler dealer, an operator.”
Roy may not have intended it, but his last comment came across as disparaging. So, I asked: “Operator? As in scam, or, just a good honest hustling entrepreneur?”
Roy chuckled. “More, the latter. So far as I know, Steve’s all legal. But any guy who hustles as aggressively as Steve will sometimes be on the fringe of legality. It’s funny but I remember Cooper raising some questions about a particular land deal. He had heard something, just general, not specific, that led him to believe there could be some impropriety. I gave him my honest appraisal, told him these deals were being done in Arizona all the time and most were in step with current statutes. Of course, I told him that things like physical description of land, legal definitions as to numbers of partners and so on had to be within the purview of those statutes. There was some changes made to Cooper’s satisfaction and the deal went through.” Roy retrieved an ashtray from the desk and lit a cigarette.
“Well, I know precious little about these things It just gave me pause to see his name there. My problem, Roy, is that I don’t somehow trust that guy. He seems nice enough when I run into him during the business day, but when he’s had several drinks he changes. Hell, for that matter, I guess we all change when we’re drinking. It’s just that Pam remembers some bad occasions when she and Cathy lived together, and it got me to thinking and analyzing too much.” The coffee had gotten cold, and I declined a refill.
Roy said, “Cathy probably got very unlucky and was at the wrong place at the wrong time. There was probably some drug-crazed hippie-type hanging out around the school. Or, maybe someone from the apartment complex had been keeping an eye on her. Did you see Willis this morning?”
“No, heading there after leaving you.” It occurred to me that no one called Willis by his first name, Herman … on reflection, guess I would prefer Willis to Herman, as well.
“By now,” Roy went on, “Willis ought to have a thick file on Cathy’s murder. Maybe he’s got something solid by now. Seems to me Steve has too much smarts to kill someone, but who the hell knows, with the way things are these days? Hey, I’ve an appointment coming in. You pretty much through with Cooper’s stuff for now?”
“All done. I’m out of here. See you later.”
The way things are these days!
Going down in the elevator, I thought about that phrase. How were things these days? Much different than ten or twenty years ago? Much different than ten or twenty years from now? Did our lives really change all that much? Or, did we just get bigger and more visible? More visible because of technology? We can get from one end of the country to the other end so fast these days. People are moving more frequently, mixing up the ‘salad bowl’ ingredients with anxieties and frustrations. Mass media blasts are assaulting us. ‘Right’ and ‘wrong’ was still ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ in any time, in any generation. The genes and chromosomes are still there. The mix! Was that the difference? If there was a difference.
Ugly and brutal murders happened in other areas. Richard Speck! Jack, the Ripper! Bluebeard! The mad Chicago doctor who had his own special torture chamber for his grisly meetings with young women!
“Whoa! Stop the thought machine,” yelling at myself as I drove out of the underground garage on my way to see Herman Willis. He was a fellow police officer and a friend for whom I had a great deal of respect. My tendency was to over think things … really! Moi?
END OF EXCERPT… Go to http://www.billyraychitwood.weebly.com and scroll down the ‘Home’ page and preview my books. The buying spots are listed after a short preview of each book. Click on the blog section on the ‘Home’ page if you would like to read my recent posts.
Further links: http://www.about.me/brchitwood
http://www.thefinalcurtain1.wordpress...
http://www.twitter.com/brchitwood
http://www.goodreads.com
For an author interview by author John Dolan, visit GALERICULATE at http://ow.ly/fVZIF
Liebsteraward
Remembering that a picture is worth a thousand words, I offer this excerpt from Book 1 of ‘The Bailey Crane Series’. There are five books in the series:
Book 1: “An Arizona Tragedy - A Bailey Crane Mystery” (Book 1)
Book 2: “Satan’s Song – A Bailey Crane Mystery” (Book 2)
Book 3: “The Brutus Gate – A Bailey Crane Mystery” (Book 3)
Book 4: “Murder In Pueblo Del Mar ‘ A Bailey Crane Mystery” (Book 4)
Book 5: “A Soul Defiled – A Bailey Crane Mystery” (Book 5)
“An Arizona Tragedy – A Bailey Crane Mystery” (Book 1) is rather close to my heart as it was inspired by the brutal death of a personal friend. The book is fictional but some of the crime data was taken from newspaper accounts of the day… the two principal murders (one in Phoenix, AZ and the other in Washington, DC) actually happened. The story, my words and plot lines are from my imagination, are not intended to cast aspersions on anyone as to guilt, are simply my way of paying homage to a young mother and actress who was taken so horribly from her family and friends.
Here is the excerpt from “An Arizona Tragedy – A Bailey Crane Mystery” (Book 1):
Six
Monday, September 4
Roy Martin’s private office on the twentieth floor of Arizona Bank Building afforded a panoramic northern view of Phoenix, west to east. The great sweep of space beckoned the eye to see forever, awakening the senses.
Remembering the green lush mountains of my native Tennessee and its own special beauty, my mind made its comparative notes: the incredible mountain trails of the Great Smokies, the great gorges and verdant valleys of that hill country with this spacious land of sun and desolate desert. There had been in Tennessee those chronic cloudy days to dampen a mood and marvelous sunny days that brought a multitude of fun activities. Here in the desert, there was a consistent pattern of sunny days and that spatial quality that overwhelmed my senses … made me wonder what psychological messages might be hidden in my obsessive love affair with the desert.
It was time to put the comparative thoughts away, to concentrate on the work at hand.
Spread across Roy’s small conference table were several documents, some bills, a check book, and a cup of coffee. Roy wanted me to familiarize myself with the Cooper estate, pay the bills as they came in, and catch any seeming inconsistencies that might appear. The court had approved my executor role in the estate, and I was a bit nonplussed in the sense that, here I sat, with the ability to manage a deceased man’s assets, to have legal authority to write checks, even, made out to myself. It was all rather new for me, and, in some respects, a bit daunting.
At the moment I was scanning a limited partnership printout, a real estate transaction that involved some land west of Phoenix. My eyes stopped abruptly when they encountered the name of Steve Langford. He was listed on the document as a general partner. There was that annoying, tantalizing thought again. Just a coincidence perhaps, but one that sent a mild shock wave through me. All the thought given to Cathy’s murder and Steve Langford, and there in front of me is his name on the Cooper document. It had to be no big deal. No fateful nonsense. It was just a stupid coincidence.
The discovery had most definitely gotten my attention, and, because I knew nothing about the technical aspects of a real estate limited partnership, I made a note to ask Roy for an explanation. At the moment he was in Lenny’s private office. This could wait.
There were some bills which needed to be paid, so I wrote out the checks, signed them, and put them in the proper envelopes along with the billing. There were some sizable funds also to be deposited to the estate. The deposit slips were prepared. Then, I turned my attention to other papers relative to the estate. There was nothing unusual, nothing that appeared inconsistent to me. In fact, I was impressed with the wise scope of the Cooper portfolio, even envied the magnitude of the estate and the sound management that had been given.
This whole business made me do some wishful thinking. Maybe one day my own estate would be of such size and worth. There were now only a few bucks in savings, a little raw land, and an annuity. My spending was too spontaneous and reckless, too much devoted to living the good life. This Cooper guy knew what he was doing. He was big time wealthy. My financial situation was okay and would get better, but Mr. Cooper did impress me with his business acumen.
Hey, I thought, that’s why they make ‘thirty-one flavors.’ Some people were successful as bankers, financiers, entrepreneurs, and workaholics. Some were like me: didn’t overdo the ‘work thing;’ left some time, lots of time, for fun and frivolity; worked just enough to make those ends meet. People like me did a considerable amount of procrastination, and we did a lot of daydreaming. Perhaps it was a phase people like me went through. One day, there would likely be some second guessing: why, oh, why didn’t I do this or that? Hopefully, not. Some of us have to smell those flowers.
There was always a price paid for what one did … someone very important must have said that. The corporate CEO works sixteen hours a day for twenty years to be on top of the heap, then discovers his kids are grown and he has an all of a sudden urge to do things that would have been better done twenty years ago. Perspective must not uniquely mean a mental view that fits all sizes. Perspective must be relative to a person’s time and place, the DNA, environment … oh, Bailey-boy, my alter ego speaks, please, stop with the philosophical digression, already!
The Cooper estate business had me thinking too much. Knowing myself, twenty years from now, I’ll still be full of my bible belt guilt, second guessing my choices, and still making a goodly share of goofs. Just what flavor is that? Vanilla? Strawberry? Pistachio? It is what it is!
The office door opened and closed. Roy sat next to me at the conference table and asked how I was doing.
“Doing fine. This is all just a little new to me … makes me think too much. Did have a little shock a moment ago when I saw Steve Langford’s name on one of these real estate limited partnership documents. Been doing so much thinking about Cathy and Steve, it was just a strange coincidence.”
“Well, that’s his business,” Roy responded. “He does land deals and other kinds of syndication. He’s really a wheeler dealer, an operator.”
Roy may not have intended it, but his last comment came across as disparaging. So, I asked: “Operator? As in scam, or, just a good honest hustling entrepreneur?”
Roy chuckled. “More, the latter. So far as I know, Steve’s all legal. But any guy who hustles as aggressively as Steve will sometimes be on the fringe of legality. It’s funny but I remember Cooper raising some questions about a particular land deal. He had heard something, just general, not specific, that led him to believe there could be some impropriety. I gave him my honest appraisal, told him these deals were being done in Arizona all the time and most were in step with current statutes. Of course, I told him that things like physical description of land, legal definitions as to numbers of partners and so on had to be within the purview of those statutes. There was some changes made to Cooper’s satisfaction and the deal went through.” Roy retrieved an ashtray from the desk and lit a cigarette.
“Well, I know precious little about these things It just gave me pause to see his name there. My problem, Roy, is that I don’t somehow trust that guy. He seems nice enough when I run into him during the business day, but when he’s had several drinks he changes. Hell, for that matter, I guess we all change when we’re drinking. It’s just that Pam remembers some bad occasions when she and Cathy lived together, and it got me to thinking and analyzing too much.” The coffee had gotten cold, and I declined a refill.
Roy said, “Cathy probably got very unlucky and was at the wrong place at the wrong time. There was probably some drug-crazed hippie-type hanging out around the school. Or, maybe someone from the apartment complex had been keeping an eye on her. Did you see Willis this morning?”
“No, heading there after leaving you.” It occurred to me that no one called Willis by his first name, Herman … on reflection, guess I would prefer Willis to Herman, as well.
“By now,” Roy went on, “Willis ought to have a thick file on Cathy’s murder. Maybe he’s got something solid by now. Seems to me Steve has too much smarts to kill someone, but who the hell knows, with the way things are these days? Hey, I’ve an appointment coming in. You pretty much through with Cooper’s stuff for now?”
“All done. I’m out of here. See you later.”
The way things are these days!
Going down in the elevator, I thought about that phrase. How were things these days? Much different than ten or twenty years ago? Much different than ten or twenty years from now? Did our lives really change all that much? Or, did we just get bigger and more visible? More visible because of technology? We can get from one end of the country to the other end so fast these days. People are moving more frequently, mixing up the ‘salad bowl’ ingredients with anxieties and frustrations. Mass media blasts are assaulting us. ‘Right’ and ‘wrong’ was still ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ in any time, in any generation. The genes and chromosomes are still there. The mix! Was that the difference? If there was a difference.
Ugly and brutal murders happened in other areas. Richard Speck! Jack, the Ripper! Bluebeard! The mad Chicago doctor who had his own special torture chamber for his grisly meetings with young women!
“Whoa! Stop the thought machine,” yelling at myself as I drove out of the underground garage on my way to see Herman Willis. He was a fellow police officer and a friend for whom I had a great deal of respect. My tendency was to over think things … really! Moi?
END OF EXCERPT… Go to http://www.billyraychitwood.weebly.com and scroll down the ‘Home’ page and preview my books. The buying spots are listed after a short preview of each book. Click on the blog section on the ‘Home’ page if you would like to read my recent posts.
Further links: http://www.about.me/brchitwood
http://www.thefinalcurtain1.wordpress...
http://www.twitter.com/brchitwood
http://www.goodreads.com
For an author interview by author John Dolan, visit GALERICULATE at http://ow.ly/fVZIF
December 10, 2012
"What Happens Next? A Life's True Tale" - An excerpt
Posted on December 10, 2012 by billyraychitwood1
Liebsteraward
Like a picture that is worth a thousand words, it’s my thinking that an excerpt from an author’s book can reveal enough pro and/or con for a reader to determine whether or not he/she wants to read further. So, here’s an excerpt from my newest book, “What Happens Next? A Life’s True Tale,” a non-fiction sketch of my life. It is a relatively short book which covers my Southern Baptist roots, the state of my faith, and some not so savory confessions of how I have lived my life. The book might very well be deserving of any label one wishes to put on it, but it is disgustingly honest and true.
Here is an excerpt from the Early Adult section of the book…
What Happens Next - A Life's True Tale
The couple resides in a second floor apartment on a lovely tree-lined street in Williamsport. It is Sunday afternoon, and Steven Ray is sleeping in his crib just off the living room. The wife is ironing. The husband is listening to classical music and day dreaming, idly chatting time to time with his wife. It is a soft afternoon somewhere between bliss and boredom.
Somehow, the conversation turns to the first month of their marriage when the wife left Washington, D. C. for Williamsport to await her husband’s Navy discharge. The wife is telling him about an affair she had with an old high school boyfriend during that month she was away. It is an attempt to purge herself of the guilt of that not so long ago tryst. The wife is wrought with the pain of the revelation but she must be done with her guilt.
The man’s world suddenly caves in on him and he is lost in the frenzied twittering quake of his neuronal wiring. The man is immobilized by the wife’s confession, hardly able to move and speak. He is mindful that the time frame of his wife’s unfaithfulness happens to coincide with the birth date of Steven Ray and this fact adds to the anxious frenzy within his mind.
Hardly able to breathe, the distressed man leaves the apartment and his sobbing wife. He wanders to houses of in-laws and leaves abruptly, leaving them to ponder his dazed, pained expressions. He moves mechanically as though willed to robotic, mindless action. He drives aimlessly and finally sits on a park bench in a park, trying to get his brain to work, trying to figure out what he must do.
The thoughts tumble down to him: ‘Is he my son? Should there be a blood test? Do I leave? Do I stay? Where do I go? What do I do?’ He finds himself opening his memory pages to the feelings he has when his father beats his mother. It is that same kind of feeling of helplessness and hopelessness.
The man feels lost like that little boy of yesterday.
He returns to the second floor apartment. His wife’s eyes are red and swollen from her crying and she is so very sorry. For whatever reason, baby in the crib, the honesty of her confession, her sobbing wish for forgiveness, or the simple expediency of the moment, the man forgives his wife and stays. He simply finds it easier to capitulate, to be done with it, than to continue with the aberrations of his mind. It seems he is an emotional cripple, unable to handle the traumatic matters that enter his space. It is his wont to place the blame for his inability to handle stress on his mobile and uncertain past. Is it time for the shrink’s sofa? No, he will not give in to that.
Strangely, life is fairly good for the couple until a Sunday afternoon gathering at Lycoming Creek’s edge in Montoursville. It is a peaceful spot where families gather, pull their cars to the water’s edge for washing, allow their children to wade in the shallow waters, have their picnic lunches. It is a wide creek, and the mother-in-law’s cabin sets among the trees some hundred yards across from where the families, cars, and kids are gathered.
A beautiful day is about to get very ugly…
That dreadful ill fated Sunday afternoon begins with all the family oriented activities the man would want. He drinks beer with his men in-laws. The men are gathering, lounging outside on soft comfortable chairs, looking across the creek at the families on the other side of the river. He listens to the men tell of their different job experiences and participates with his occasional anecdote laced with humor.
The sun shines in a near cloudless sky, and the women bring their plates of goodies out and spread them on the picnic table for the men to prepare and eat at their leisure. It is the sort of day the man has always factored into his vision of family purpose and unity. He sits with baby Steven on his lap, alternating his adult talk with baby talk.
The man’s wife sees across the creek a family she knows, takes baby Steven from his lap, and walks through the shallow water to the other side. The man watches as the wife sweetly engages a young couple in conversation there at water’s edge. A peculiar sensation hits him and at once he somehow knows that his wife is talking to the man who could be the father of his son.
The man sits, his mind filling with accusatory, hateful thoughts. He is lost to all conversations around him. He is riveted to the moment and the building storm within him.
The wife and Steven shortly return, and there is a confrontation. He cannot deny his own disturbing thoughts and must know if he is correct in his presumptions. His wife tells him the truth. It is the old boyfriend with whom she had the previous January affair. She does not feel that her husband has a right to question her innocent move to say hello and show off her son. She does not give any priority to the husband’s own perception of yet another betrayal. She feels she has done nothing wrong in saying hello to an old boyfriend and his wife.
The words are cross, sharp, designed to hurt. There is no stifling anxiety now for the man, just red-hot anger. The husband abruptly and with little fanfare leaves the hillside retreat. He motors away from the family gathering. He is not sure where he is going but he knows he must be away. The harsh words between the couple and the quick revving engine of his car driving away are not lost on the in-law family gathering. Except for baby Steven crying, all is quiet on the hillside.
Clad in a white t-shirt, dungarees, and sock-less brown penny loafers, he goes to a military club recently joined. It is a private drinking and eating club for veterans situated in South Williamsport. There the sourly disposed man drinks away the afternoon, gets rowdy, surly, becomes obnoxious with some patrons, and is asked to leave. It is dusk. He is drunk. He is unsteady and sorely without the faculties he needs to drive his car.
After he crosses the bridge into Williamsport and turns onto the street where he lives, he drives into some parked cars along the curb, damaging three. He is less than a block from home. He is still inebriated but stunned back to some semblance of awareness.
He sits at the curb as police come and a crowd gathers. He fights with a policeman when the latter tries to put him in a cruiser and take him to jail. He is clubbed by the cop just above the right eye. Now, his t-shirt and pants are covered with the dirt and blood of the scuffle.
He finds himself for the first time in his life in a jail cell, and as his sobriety slowly returns to him it might just as well be hell. His mind begins with the scenarios. Some are woefully unclear in the focusing. He sits on the hard cot in the small enclosure, his head throbbing with pain and uncertainty. With his head bowed, he relives the hours of the Sunday afternoon, the act by his wife he perceives as betrayal, the military club drinking as plain stupid, and the ramming of the parked cars, the cop fight, as priceless in ‘Keystone Comic’ hilarity. He is not laughing, however. He is in a particular black abyss of his own making.
The man mentally shovels on his guilt, plays the pity games, and self-decrees that his life is over. He stands at the bars of his cell and weakly yells at the jailer on night duty, pleads to be let out of his claustrophobic nightmare. The jailer is kind to the man, tells him that morning will come soon, that everything will eventually work out…
This ends the excerpt from “What Happens Next? A Life’s True Tale.” Should you care to read the entire book, please visit amazon.com (US and UK) and/or my website/blog and scroll down the ‘Home’ page to my books. There you will find the links for purchasing the book — paperback, kindle and/or other e-book formats. Here is the link to my Website/Blog: http://billyraychitwood.weebly.com
Liebsteraward
Like a picture that is worth a thousand words, it’s my thinking that an excerpt from an author’s book can reveal enough pro and/or con for a reader to determine whether or not he/she wants to read further. So, here’s an excerpt from my newest book, “What Happens Next? A Life’s True Tale,” a non-fiction sketch of my life. It is a relatively short book which covers my Southern Baptist roots, the state of my faith, and some not so savory confessions of how I have lived my life. The book might very well be deserving of any label one wishes to put on it, but it is disgustingly honest and true.
Here is an excerpt from the Early Adult section of the book…
What Happens Next - A Life's True Tale
The couple resides in a second floor apartment on a lovely tree-lined street in Williamsport. It is Sunday afternoon, and Steven Ray is sleeping in his crib just off the living room. The wife is ironing. The husband is listening to classical music and day dreaming, idly chatting time to time with his wife. It is a soft afternoon somewhere between bliss and boredom.
Somehow, the conversation turns to the first month of their marriage when the wife left Washington, D. C. for Williamsport to await her husband’s Navy discharge. The wife is telling him about an affair she had with an old high school boyfriend during that month she was away. It is an attempt to purge herself of the guilt of that not so long ago tryst. The wife is wrought with the pain of the revelation but she must be done with her guilt.
The man’s world suddenly caves in on him and he is lost in the frenzied twittering quake of his neuronal wiring. The man is immobilized by the wife’s confession, hardly able to move and speak. He is mindful that the time frame of his wife’s unfaithfulness happens to coincide with the birth date of Steven Ray and this fact adds to the anxious frenzy within his mind.
Hardly able to breathe, the distressed man leaves the apartment and his sobbing wife. He wanders to houses of in-laws and leaves abruptly, leaving them to ponder his dazed, pained expressions. He moves mechanically as though willed to robotic, mindless action. He drives aimlessly and finally sits on a park bench in a park, trying to get his brain to work, trying to figure out what he must do.
The thoughts tumble down to him: ‘Is he my son? Should there be a blood test? Do I leave? Do I stay? Where do I go? What do I do?’ He finds himself opening his memory pages to the feelings he has when his father beats his mother. It is that same kind of feeling of helplessness and hopelessness.
The man feels lost like that little boy of yesterday.
He returns to the second floor apartment. His wife’s eyes are red and swollen from her crying and she is so very sorry. For whatever reason, baby in the crib, the honesty of her confession, her sobbing wish for forgiveness, or the simple expediency of the moment, the man forgives his wife and stays. He simply finds it easier to capitulate, to be done with it, than to continue with the aberrations of his mind. It seems he is an emotional cripple, unable to handle the traumatic matters that enter his space. It is his wont to place the blame for his inability to handle stress on his mobile and uncertain past. Is it time for the shrink’s sofa? No, he will not give in to that.
Strangely, life is fairly good for the couple until a Sunday afternoon gathering at Lycoming Creek’s edge in Montoursville. It is a peaceful spot where families gather, pull their cars to the water’s edge for washing, allow their children to wade in the shallow waters, have their picnic lunches. It is a wide creek, and the mother-in-law’s cabin sets among the trees some hundred yards across from where the families, cars, and kids are gathered.
A beautiful day is about to get very ugly…
That dreadful ill fated Sunday afternoon begins with all the family oriented activities the man would want. He drinks beer with his men in-laws. The men are gathering, lounging outside on soft comfortable chairs, looking across the creek at the families on the other side of the river. He listens to the men tell of their different job experiences and participates with his occasional anecdote laced with humor.
The sun shines in a near cloudless sky, and the women bring their plates of goodies out and spread them on the picnic table for the men to prepare and eat at their leisure. It is the sort of day the man has always factored into his vision of family purpose and unity. He sits with baby Steven on his lap, alternating his adult talk with baby talk.
The man’s wife sees across the creek a family she knows, takes baby Steven from his lap, and walks through the shallow water to the other side. The man watches as the wife sweetly engages a young couple in conversation there at water’s edge. A peculiar sensation hits him and at once he somehow knows that his wife is talking to the man who could be the father of his son.
The man sits, his mind filling with accusatory, hateful thoughts. He is lost to all conversations around him. He is riveted to the moment and the building storm within him.
The wife and Steven shortly return, and there is a confrontation. He cannot deny his own disturbing thoughts and must know if he is correct in his presumptions. His wife tells him the truth. It is the old boyfriend with whom she had the previous January affair. She does not feel that her husband has a right to question her innocent move to say hello and show off her son. She does not give any priority to the husband’s own perception of yet another betrayal. She feels she has done nothing wrong in saying hello to an old boyfriend and his wife.
The words are cross, sharp, designed to hurt. There is no stifling anxiety now for the man, just red-hot anger. The husband abruptly and with little fanfare leaves the hillside retreat. He motors away from the family gathering. He is not sure where he is going but he knows he must be away. The harsh words between the couple and the quick revving engine of his car driving away are not lost on the in-law family gathering. Except for baby Steven crying, all is quiet on the hillside.
Clad in a white t-shirt, dungarees, and sock-less brown penny loafers, he goes to a military club recently joined. It is a private drinking and eating club for veterans situated in South Williamsport. There the sourly disposed man drinks away the afternoon, gets rowdy, surly, becomes obnoxious with some patrons, and is asked to leave. It is dusk. He is drunk. He is unsteady and sorely without the faculties he needs to drive his car.
After he crosses the bridge into Williamsport and turns onto the street where he lives, he drives into some parked cars along the curb, damaging three. He is less than a block from home. He is still inebriated but stunned back to some semblance of awareness.
He sits at the curb as police come and a crowd gathers. He fights with a policeman when the latter tries to put him in a cruiser and take him to jail. He is clubbed by the cop just above the right eye. Now, his t-shirt and pants are covered with the dirt and blood of the scuffle.
He finds himself for the first time in his life in a jail cell, and as his sobriety slowly returns to him it might just as well be hell. His mind begins with the scenarios. Some are woefully unclear in the focusing. He sits on the hard cot in the small enclosure, his head throbbing with pain and uncertainty. With his head bowed, he relives the hours of the Sunday afternoon, the act by his wife he perceives as betrayal, the military club drinking as plain stupid, and the ramming of the parked cars, the cop fight, as priceless in ‘Keystone Comic’ hilarity. He is not laughing, however. He is in a particular black abyss of his own making.
The man mentally shovels on his guilt, plays the pity games, and self-decrees that his life is over. He stands at the bars of his cell and weakly yells at the jailer on night duty, pleads to be let out of his claustrophobic nightmare. The jailer is kind to the man, tells him that morning will come soon, that everything will eventually work out…
This ends the excerpt from “What Happens Next? A Life’s True Tale.” Should you care to read the entire book, please visit amazon.com (US and UK) and/or my website/blog and scroll down the ‘Home’ page to my books. There you will find the links for purchasing the book — paperback, kindle and/or other e-book formats. Here is the link to my Website/Blog: http://billyraychitwood.weebly.com
December 5, 2012
The coveted 'Liebster' Award
I've been nominated by John Dolan for the coveted (maybe) 'LIEBSTER Award'. You can find out about this trivial pursuit (but, GREAT!) at http://goo.gl/xk16q , a wonderful blog site by John Dolan called 'Galericulate' (a word meaning, 'covered, as with a hat or cap'). If you are not familiar with this British 'chap' of wisdom and wit, you have just got to become familiar. SO, please visit his site, read his posts, some book reviews, some outrageous author interviews, and I'm betting you will thank me. In fact, I've reviewed his book, "Everyone Burns," on this site and will do likewise when the much expected sequel is out. I have also interviewed him on this site --- view in the archives.
Now, back to the business at hand. Here are the rules for acceptance of the 'LIEBSTER Award.' These are important because? At the end of my little mission here, I will be nominating eleven blogs for this coveted award. Okay, the rules: 1) When you receive the award you must post eleven random facts about yourself; 2) you must answer eleven questions posed by the person who nominated you; 3) you pass the award on to the blogger friends you are nominating, making sure that you have notified them of their nominations; 4) you write up eleven new questions for the bloggers you are nominating (and you cannot nominate the blogger who nominated you); 5) finally, you paste the award picture into your blog.
Eleven Random Facts About Billy Ray Chitwood:
1) Kerosene lamps were the 'in thing' during my rural youth.
2) You would never know I taught 'Advanced Writing' when you read my books.
3) Skipped school occasionally to play 'nine ball' at the pool hall.
4) Spent many Saturdays sitting on the front row of the movie house watching Hopalong Cassidy, an early cowboy hero of mine --- how would you know him?
5) Worked up the nerve in high school to ask a majorette beauty for a movie date --- then, stood her up because of my shyness (go figure!)
6) Spent a tour of duty in the US Navy at an outpost in the Aleution Islands called Adak (A-yuck!).
7) The English 'Romantic Poets' were my beacon lights in college --- also gave me a big assist on dates! (My etchings, so to speak.)
8) I've chased 'windmills' all my life --- and still chasing!
9) Love is not only a great golfer but an emotion that ends up being my number one priority in life.
10) Along with the waste accumulated in my life there has been a lot of joy.
11) I've been a 'President' --- of a Homeowners Association.
Eleven Questions From John Dolan for me to answer:
1) What is the worst present you ever received?
I'm tempted but won't go there! The worst present was Christmas undershorts two sizes too large from my loving Mom --- she gave them every year until she passed on. (I just never had the heart to tell her.)
2) If you were going to throw someone our of an aeroplane who would it be?
An 'aeroplane'? Really, John, get on board! I'm too lovable to even consider such an awful act...
3) What is the most embarrassing thing you've ever worn?
A yellow polka dot bikini! (Please, John, try harder with the questions.)
4) If you could have been the writer of any song, which song would it be?
Toss-up between "My Way" and "God Bless America."
5) If you weren't doing what you are doing, what would you be doing?
Writing a song...
6) How long can you hold your breath for?
John, John! Ending with a preposition? Really? One hour, thirty-three seconds!
7) If you had to have a tattoo what would it be and where would it be on your body?
'Liebster' Award, lower right cheek!
8) Apple or Microsoft?
Finally a short question! Apple has a certain acid that bothers my stomach. Microsoft when I'm not hungry.
9) If you could remove one country from the planet which one would it be?
Right this minute or later on when I'm more rational! Besides, I don't wish to offend North Korea...
10) Which extinct animal would you like to see not-extinct?
A dinosaur because I'm lonely!
11) Which movie is most likely to make you blub?
'Blub' as in blubber? Out on a limb here but I go with "Somewhere In Time."
Here are my eleven easy questions for my nominees:
1) Your favorite Actor and Actress?
2) Your least liked chore?
3) Your favorite book genre?
4) Your favorite type of music?
5) Your favorite movie?
6) Your least favorite movie?
7) Mayonnaise or Salad Dressing?
8) Favorite beverage?
9) Favorite meat?
10) Favorite vegetable?
11) Your favorite author of all time?
We're all serious about the business of writing and the events that shape our world. Some levity and fun is allowed. Who knows! While doubtful, this 'Liebster' Award could go viral! It took me some time to do mine, but all of you are younger and more digitally savvy...should knock the chore off in thirty minutes. My very best to all, and, don't hate me, please! Just get even. You can hate John Dolan!
Here are my nominees for the 'Liebster' Award:
Rich Weatherly - (@richweatherly43) - http://richweatherly.wordpress.com
Christine Warner - (@ChristinesWords) - http://christine-warner.com
Jhobell Kristyl - (@JhobellKristyl) - http://bookmavenpicks.wordpress.com
Chris Martin - (@TheChris_Martin) - http://chrismartinwrites.com
Jack Durish - (@jackdrsm) - http://www.jackdurish.com
Caleb Pirtle - (@CalebPirtle) - http://venturegalleries.com
Babette James - (@BabetteJames) - http://www.babettejames.com
Dianne Gray - (@Zigotide) - http://diannegray.au.com - http://diannegray.wordpress.com
Ella Medler - (@EllaMedler) - http://www.ellamedler.com - http://ellamedler.wordpress.com
Rick Mallery - (@RickMallery) - http://rickmallery.wordpress.com
Judith Victoria Douglas - http://booksbyjudithvictoriadouglas.w...
Now, back to the business at hand. Here are the rules for acceptance of the 'LIEBSTER Award.' These are important because? At the end of my little mission here, I will be nominating eleven blogs for this coveted award. Okay, the rules: 1) When you receive the award you must post eleven random facts about yourself; 2) you must answer eleven questions posed by the person who nominated you; 3) you pass the award on to the blogger friends you are nominating, making sure that you have notified them of their nominations; 4) you write up eleven new questions for the bloggers you are nominating (and you cannot nominate the blogger who nominated you); 5) finally, you paste the award picture into your blog.
Eleven Random Facts About Billy Ray Chitwood:
1) Kerosene lamps were the 'in thing' during my rural youth.
2) You would never know I taught 'Advanced Writing' when you read my books.
3) Skipped school occasionally to play 'nine ball' at the pool hall.
4) Spent many Saturdays sitting on the front row of the movie house watching Hopalong Cassidy, an early cowboy hero of mine --- how would you know him?
5) Worked up the nerve in high school to ask a majorette beauty for a movie date --- then, stood her up because of my shyness (go figure!)
6) Spent a tour of duty in the US Navy at an outpost in the Aleution Islands called Adak (A-yuck!).
7) The English 'Romantic Poets' were my beacon lights in college --- also gave me a big assist on dates! (My etchings, so to speak.)
8) I've chased 'windmills' all my life --- and still chasing!
9) Love is not only a great golfer but an emotion that ends up being my number one priority in life.
10) Along with the waste accumulated in my life there has been a lot of joy.
11) I've been a 'President' --- of a Homeowners Association.
Eleven Questions From John Dolan for me to answer:
1) What is the worst present you ever received?
I'm tempted but won't go there! The worst present was Christmas undershorts two sizes too large from my loving Mom --- she gave them every year until she passed on. (I just never had the heart to tell her.)
2) If you were going to throw someone our of an aeroplane who would it be?
An 'aeroplane'? Really, John, get on board! I'm too lovable to even consider such an awful act...
3) What is the most embarrassing thing you've ever worn?
A yellow polka dot bikini! (Please, John, try harder with the questions.)
4) If you could have been the writer of any song, which song would it be?
Toss-up between "My Way" and "God Bless America."
5) If you weren't doing what you are doing, what would you be doing?
Writing a song...
6) How long can you hold your breath for?
John, John! Ending with a preposition? Really? One hour, thirty-three seconds!
7) If you had to have a tattoo what would it be and where would it be on your body?
'Liebster' Award, lower right cheek!
8) Apple or Microsoft?
Finally a short question! Apple has a certain acid that bothers my stomach. Microsoft when I'm not hungry.
9) If you could remove one country from the planet which one would it be?
Right this minute or later on when I'm more rational! Besides, I don't wish to offend North Korea...
10) Which extinct animal would you like to see not-extinct?
A dinosaur because I'm lonely!
11) Which movie is most likely to make you blub?
'Blub' as in blubber? Out on a limb here but I go with "Somewhere In Time."
Here are my eleven easy questions for my nominees:
1) Your favorite Actor and Actress?
2) Your least liked chore?
3) Your favorite book genre?
4) Your favorite type of music?
5) Your favorite movie?
6) Your least favorite movie?
7) Mayonnaise or Salad Dressing?
8) Favorite beverage?
9) Favorite meat?
10) Favorite vegetable?
11) Your favorite author of all time?
We're all serious about the business of writing and the events that shape our world. Some levity and fun is allowed. Who knows! While doubtful, this 'Liebster' Award could go viral! It took me some time to do mine, but all of you are younger and more digitally savvy...should knock the chore off in thirty minutes. My very best to all, and, don't hate me, please! Just get even. You can hate John Dolan!
Here are my nominees for the 'Liebster' Award:
Rich Weatherly - (@richweatherly43) - http://richweatherly.wordpress.com
Christine Warner - (@ChristinesWords) - http://christine-warner.com
Jhobell Kristyl - (@JhobellKristyl) - http://bookmavenpicks.wordpress.com
Chris Martin - (@TheChris_Martin) - http://chrismartinwrites.com
Jack Durish - (@jackdrsm) - http://www.jackdurish.com
Caleb Pirtle - (@CalebPirtle) - http://venturegalleries.com
Babette James - (@BabetteJames) - http://www.babettejames.com
Dianne Gray - (@Zigotide) - http://diannegray.au.com - http://diannegray.wordpress.com
Ella Medler - (@EllaMedler) - http://www.ellamedler.com - http://ellamedler.wordpress.com
Rick Mallery - (@RickMallery) - http://rickmallery.wordpress.com
Judith Victoria Douglas - http://booksbyjudithvictoriadouglas.w...
December 1, 2012
Where Did Christman Go?
Where Did Christmas Go?
Posted on December 1, 2012 by billyraychitwood
Okay, Christmas has not gone anywhere. It is still the birthday of Jesus, a great man, and, for many, a Savior. Jesus gave birth to the philosophy of Christianity and he gave us many golden rules by which to live our lives. He was a simple man with a richness of heart, mind, and soul who sought to provide all of us, the poor, the rich, the disabled, with a vision beyond ourselves and beyond our problems. From the teachings of Jesus came many branches of religion to satisfy the soul-needs of many.
For some among us, Jesus has little or no meaning beyond His mere existence. For some there is no religion that has meaning. For some there is only this life that we shall live. For some, death brings down the final curtain…an eternal darkness. These people among us have this right to their secular non-belief in God, in Christianity, in all that is Holy. The Christian and the secular can walk side by side, be friends and neighbors, be tolerant of each other’s views.
For me, I say Happy Birthday, Jesus! I say, Merry Christmas to all and a Happy New Year. I say, enjoy the lighting of your Christmas Tree and the presents you place beneath it. It is the Yuletide season. It is a holiday season. Christmas is a federal holiday. Our Constitution was formed by those of Judeo-Christian values. We allow for a separation of Church and State in our federal and state business. Why is this not enough?
From the polls we get the information that ninety per cent of us Americans still want a Christmas holiday, a Christmas tree, presents under the tree. We ninety per cent see this time of year as a time to spread love, peace, and good will. Is that really so bad? Why is it that some want to make such a big deal about calling a Christmas Tree a Holiday Tree? Why is it that a Nativity Scene is no longer allowed in certain venues? Why is it that the majority does not seem to govern our affairs because of the ‘suffering’ minority?
When does this madness end? When do the encroaching seculars finally take over our country? When does the politically correct get to rule every aspect of our lives? Where did Christmas go? Have we not given in enough to the minority groups? Can we still keep in place some vestige of our heritage as a nation? I know changes must come as we outgrow some primitive laws on the books. Some of our language must change when it is so obviously insulting to some. Some things just need changing. The difference between conservative and liberal does not escape me, not does ‘far right’ and ’far left,’ nor does ‘moderate,’ ‘progressive,’ ‘extreme.’ Neither of these groups will ever win all the political and social battles, but could we just call ‘Time Out’ for this beautiful season that is now here. Most of us will, but could the zealots call ‘Time Out’ as well. And, yes, I know the liberals want to blame the conservatives, the ‘talk show’ fringe, certain news channels, and it likely doesn’t really matter to most of us. It just seems to come up each year, this issue of ‘Christmas Tree’ versus ‘Holiday Tree,’ the issue of ‘Nativity Scene Displays,’ the issue of ‘Merry Christmas’ and ‘Happy Holidays.’ Guess we can say both, ‘Merry Christmas’ and ‘Happy Holidays.’ It just bothers me when some retailers warn their workers only to say ‘Happy Holidays’ because ’Merry Christmas’ might offend someone. So many of us have become hesitant in uttering something so naturally spoken over the years.
Christmas will never be for me the way it was so many years ago. I’ve aged and the season in upon me and past me before I know it. I overheard an argument about all this ‘Christmas Tree’ and ‘Political Correctness’ stuff and it just bothered me. Guess it’s kind of natural for an anachronism like me to be bothered.
Guess it’s kind of natural for an ‘old dog’ like me to wonder, ‘Where Did Christmas Go?’
Posted on December 1, 2012 by billyraychitwood
Okay, Christmas has not gone anywhere. It is still the birthday of Jesus, a great man, and, for many, a Savior. Jesus gave birth to the philosophy of Christianity and he gave us many golden rules by which to live our lives. He was a simple man with a richness of heart, mind, and soul who sought to provide all of us, the poor, the rich, the disabled, with a vision beyond ourselves and beyond our problems. From the teachings of Jesus came many branches of religion to satisfy the soul-needs of many.
For some among us, Jesus has little or no meaning beyond His mere existence. For some there is no religion that has meaning. For some there is only this life that we shall live. For some, death brings down the final curtain…an eternal darkness. These people among us have this right to their secular non-belief in God, in Christianity, in all that is Holy. The Christian and the secular can walk side by side, be friends and neighbors, be tolerant of each other’s views.
For me, I say Happy Birthday, Jesus! I say, Merry Christmas to all and a Happy New Year. I say, enjoy the lighting of your Christmas Tree and the presents you place beneath it. It is the Yuletide season. It is a holiday season. Christmas is a federal holiday. Our Constitution was formed by those of Judeo-Christian values. We allow for a separation of Church and State in our federal and state business. Why is this not enough?
From the polls we get the information that ninety per cent of us Americans still want a Christmas holiday, a Christmas tree, presents under the tree. We ninety per cent see this time of year as a time to spread love, peace, and good will. Is that really so bad? Why is it that some want to make such a big deal about calling a Christmas Tree a Holiday Tree? Why is it that a Nativity Scene is no longer allowed in certain venues? Why is it that the majority does not seem to govern our affairs because of the ‘suffering’ minority?
When does this madness end? When do the encroaching seculars finally take over our country? When does the politically correct get to rule every aspect of our lives? Where did Christmas go? Have we not given in enough to the minority groups? Can we still keep in place some vestige of our heritage as a nation? I know changes must come as we outgrow some primitive laws on the books. Some of our language must change when it is so obviously insulting to some. Some things just need changing. The difference between conservative and liberal does not escape me, not does ‘far right’ and ’far left,’ nor does ‘moderate,’ ‘progressive,’ ‘extreme.’ Neither of these groups will ever win all the political and social battles, but could we just call ‘Time Out’ for this beautiful season that is now here. Most of us will, but could the zealots call ‘Time Out’ as well. And, yes, I know the liberals want to blame the conservatives, the ‘talk show’ fringe, certain news channels, and it likely doesn’t really matter to most of us. It just seems to come up each year, this issue of ‘Christmas Tree’ versus ‘Holiday Tree,’ the issue of ‘Nativity Scene Displays,’ the issue of ‘Merry Christmas’ and ‘Happy Holidays.’ Guess we can say both, ‘Merry Christmas’ and ‘Happy Holidays.’ It just bothers me when some retailers warn their workers only to say ‘Happy Holidays’ because ’Merry Christmas’ might offend someone. So many of us have become hesitant in uttering something so naturally spoken over the years.
Christmas will never be for me the way it was so many years ago. I’ve aged and the season in upon me and past me before I know it. I overheard an argument about all this ‘Christmas Tree’ and ‘Political Correctness’ stuff and it just bothered me. Guess it’s kind of natural for an anachronism like me to be bothered.
Guess it’s kind of natural for an ‘old dog’ like me to wonder, ‘Where Did Christmas Go?’
November 22, 2012
Review of "Everyone Burns" a novel by John Dolan
5.0 out of 5 stars "Everyone Burns" is sublime chaos! The best kind!, November 9, 2012
By Billy Ray Chitwood
This review is from: "Everyone Burns" (Kindle Edition)
Sublime chaos! Action scenes and dialogues are deftly metered by a mind that seems ever reaching for outer limits. It's easy to be absorbed in the mad Thai business at hand, the off-beat protagonist, but it is the exquisitely witty patter and the author's unique penchant for challenging the reader's mind that moves one hungrily through the pages of "Everyone Burns." If you haven't read this 'wild and wonderful' guy, you've got to take the time... You will be glad you did - guaranteed!
Guess I'm biased because I love John Dolan's author interviews --- they are truly addictive, innovative, and must reads! (Just stay away from 'Digby!') I'm also a faithful follower on twitter. You, too, will be when you catch a glimpse of his talent...
Follow John Dolan on Twitter: @JohnDolanAuthor
Go to John Dolan's blogsite; http://goo.gl/wYWnn
By Billy Ray Chitwood
This review is from: "Everyone Burns" (Kindle Edition)
Sublime chaos! Action scenes and dialogues are deftly metered by a mind that seems ever reaching for outer limits. It's easy to be absorbed in the mad Thai business at hand, the off-beat protagonist, but it is the exquisitely witty patter and the author's unique penchant for challenging the reader's mind that moves one hungrily through the pages of "Everyone Burns." If you haven't read this 'wild and wonderful' guy, you've got to take the time... You will be glad you did - guaranteed!
Guess I'm biased because I love John Dolan's author interviews --- they are truly addictive, innovative, and must reads! (Just stay away from 'Digby!') I'm also a faithful follower on twitter. You, too, will be when you catch a glimpse of his talent...
Follow John Dolan on Twitter: @JohnDolanAuthor
Go to John Dolan's blogsite; http://goo.gl/wYWnn
November 21, 2012
The Writer's Room
Each of us wannabe would-be writers walk into our 'room of reflection' with a special DNA and skill set. We walk into our 'room' with life experiences that have similarity to other lives, but there is a uniqueness in each of us, different appetites and desires, different cultures, large and small alteration patterns in our family environments.
Some of us bring into the 'room' a life generally filled with joy and happiness, wholesome family connections and memories. Some of us bring despair, loneliness, sadness, and tragedies. Some of us bring keen minds with which to pen our thoughts and enlighten the readers of the world. Some of us want so much to convey our long buried messages of where we've been and how we've survived but feel inferior to the task. Some of us struggle to write the words that would set us free from the demons of our pasts. Some have the mental acuity with which to paint a word portrait of stunning quality. Some struggle and produce masterpieces of their own. Some struggle and leave the 'room.' There are millions of us wannabe would-be writers in the world. Some of us do leave the 'room,' finding after all that writing is not our true passion.
Those of us bitten by the writing bug know the long hours of staring at a blank page. We also know the overwhelming feeling of pride when we have written something so emotionally satisfying our own tears splash on the laptop keys. It is in this 'room' that we find out so much about ourselves, our strengths, our weaknesses. It is here that we come to understand those parts of us we struggled to know for so very long. It is here in this privacy that we become who it is we truly wish to be... not necessarily the author of Book of Month clubs, not necessarily the author that publishers rush to sign, not necessarily the exact masterpiece we had wanted that book to become.
In 'the writer's room' we become more than we ever imagined we could be. We can create a story with true elements from our own lives. We can place in the story those characters that we have known, respected, or reviled. These characters can tell the story of our lives with all of the emotions assembled therein. We can be old, young, man, woman, child, and these characters, with our lines and between our lines, tell the world about that special and unique DNA we brought into the room.
Will our time spent in 'the writer's room' make us rich and famous? Could happen, of course. If we are serious about our craft, however, should that be the real intent when we enter that room? That is for each of us to decide. For me, whatever the story I'm writing, there are pieces of me strewn throughout the pages. For me, it is in this room where I have grown the most, have discovered more about myself than all that living gave up to me. You see, I was too busy being that actor on the stage of life to really know my true self. It took this 'room,' these private moments to really find me. It took this room, all the writing errata, to become confident with the fact that, yes, I can honestly pen words and phrases that can compete with anyone. Do I realize that Shakespeare and Hemingway live not within me? Of course, but, then, were that the case, what would have been my discovery?
Go to 'the writer's room' and create a world where you discover yourself. Make your mistakes, grow and become the best that you can be. If fame is meant to be, so it shall come to pass. If self-awareness and truth are your rewards in that 'room,' be joyous in that recognition.
Robert Browning, one of the great Victorian poets of his day, made claim that 'striving was a noble thing' --- if one digs a ditch, it should be the best ditch that one can dig. So it should be with writing.
If your proclivity is writing, go to 'the writer's room' and find your true being.
Some of us bring into the 'room' a life generally filled with joy and happiness, wholesome family connections and memories. Some of us bring despair, loneliness, sadness, and tragedies. Some of us bring keen minds with which to pen our thoughts and enlighten the readers of the world. Some of us want so much to convey our long buried messages of where we've been and how we've survived but feel inferior to the task. Some of us struggle to write the words that would set us free from the demons of our pasts. Some have the mental acuity with which to paint a word portrait of stunning quality. Some struggle and produce masterpieces of their own. Some struggle and leave the 'room.' There are millions of us wannabe would-be writers in the world. Some of us do leave the 'room,' finding after all that writing is not our true passion.
Those of us bitten by the writing bug know the long hours of staring at a blank page. We also know the overwhelming feeling of pride when we have written something so emotionally satisfying our own tears splash on the laptop keys. It is in this 'room' that we find out so much about ourselves, our strengths, our weaknesses. It is here that we come to understand those parts of us we struggled to know for so very long. It is here in this privacy that we become who it is we truly wish to be... not necessarily the author of Book of Month clubs, not necessarily the author that publishers rush to sign, not necessarily the exact masterpiece we had wanted that book to become.
In 'the writer's room' we become more than we ever imagined we could be. We can create a story with true elements from our own lives. We can place in the story those characters that we have known, respected, or reviled. These characters can tell the story of our lives with all of the emotions assembled therein. We can be old, young, man, woman, child, and these characters, with our lines and between our lines, tell the world about that special and unique DNA we brought into the room.
Will our time spent in 'the writer's room' make us rich and famous? Could happen, of course. If we are serious about our craft, however, should that be the real intent when we enter that room? That is for each of us to decide. For me, whatever the story I'm writing, there are pieces of me strewn throughout the pages. For me, it is in this room where I have grown the most, have discovered more about myself than all that living gave up to me. You see, I was too busy being that actor on the stage of life to really know my true self. It took this 'room,' these private moments to really find me. It took this room, all the writing errata, to become confident with the fact that, yes, I can honestly pen words and phrases that can compete with anyone. Do I realize that Shakespeare and Hemingway live not within me? Of course, but, then, were that the case, what would have been my discovery?
Go to 'the writer's room' and create a world where you discover yourself. Make your mistakes, grow and become the best that you can be. If fame is meant to be, so it shall come to pass. If self-awareness and truth are your rewards in that 'room,' be joyous in that recognition.
Robert Browning, one of the great Victorian poets of his day, made claim that 'striving was a noble thing' --- if one digs a ditch, it should be the best ditch that one can dig. So it should be with writing.
If your proclivity is writing, go to 'the writer's room' and find your true being.
November 19, 2012
An Interview With John Dolan - Author of "Everyone Burns"
Posted on November 19, 2012 by billyraychitwood
This is a ‘Don’t Miss’ combo for you: an interview with a quality author and a partial review of his 5-Star book, “Everyone Burns.” If you have not had the pleasure of reading John Dolan you’ve missed a great experience from a writer extraordinaire. JD is truly a wordsmith for his times. He is also the man who introduced me and countless others to the word, ‘Galericulate’ — that’s the name of his website/blog. (See end of interview/review.) He’s the man hidden under the hat and he’s roaming around some continent or another. At last report, he was in Amsterdam. Meet John Dolan.
‘Burning’ John Dolan, writer extraordinaire – An Interview (Sort of!)
(Billy Ray Chitwood=BR) (John Dolan= JD)
BR: Okay, Filbert, take off the blindfold!
JD: Hey, not so rough! You just don’t take ‘no’ for an answer, do you?
BR: Why should I? You can leave us now, Filbert, and take Salome with you.
JD: You kidding me? ‘Salome!’ ‘Filbert!’ They’re ‘junkies…’
BR: Had no money…they grabbed you for the ‘grass.’
JD: Are you mocking me? Are you stealing my interview ideas?
BR: Show me a legal document!
JD: At least my chair is comfortable, and my straps are pure leather, not this cord crap!
BR: You left me no choice, JD, you broke your promise to take my books viral and…
JD: Correction! I said your books were vile and pretentious…
BR: Okay, okay, I understand you’re a bit angry…just some tit for tat, that’s all. I really like your book, “Everyone Burns,” and I’m thinking ‘movie,’ ‘TV series,’ something really big. Can we just relax and talk about the book?
JD: Can you at least put a cushion on this orange crate? You’re not helping my hemmies.
BR: How’s that? Better? Good…Now tell me about “Everyone Burns” and how you came to write it.
JD: Guess I got no choice, but you gotta promise me you’re not going to make a habit of this kind of interview. This is my idea, not yours. Do we have a deal?
BR: Yes, we have a deal…Hell, I thought you would be pleased!
JD: Well, I am, sort of, but this is intellectual property, not something you mess with, BR. Plus I only get one original idea per decade.
BR: Okay, no more kidnaps for interviews! Got it! Can we proceed?
JD: The events in “Everyone Burns” take place over seventeen days while Thailand is still numb from the giant tsunami of December, 2004. Like everyone of sane mind this great catastrophe made my emotions run wild, made me think of life like I had never really thought about it. “Everyone Burns” gave me some escape from the reality all around me.
BR: Really?
JD: No, not really. I wrote it for the money and the groupies.
BR: And how’s that working out?
JD: Probably about as well as it’s working out for you, I’d guess. Well … looking at you, probably slightly better with the groupies.
BR: Here’s a quote from ‘Everyone Burns, just after a bar fracas:
“To summarise, my life is one of split personality. I am in two minds about it myself. Nevertheless, down these narrow streets a man must walk, even if it is in flip-flops. But I am no Philip Marlowe, and Koh Samui is not film-noir USA. There is nothing of Hollywood’s black and white morality on this most colourful of Thailand’s Islands. And long overcoats just make you sweat in the sun. Here The Postman Never Rings Twice, simply because he never rings at all. He has better things to do. Lamai’s and Chaweng’s adventurers generally pack a condom, not a gun.”
You open the book with a broken cue stick inflicting injury to your protagonist and it’s like the excitement and action just never stops after that. I picked this quote because it’s one of my favorites but also because it gives the reader a sample of your splendid writing…Do you have any disagreement with my assessment here, JD?
JD: Take these cords off and I’ll kiss you. The passage is also a favorite of mine. Aside from the style thing in my writing, it is just basically who I am. But I’m NOT David Braddock, by the way. I want to make that clear in case my wife Fiona is reading this! A book of this genre for me has to move at a rapid pace, the action mostly non-stop. A lot of what I write about in “Everyone Burns” has some factual similarities, the people, the places, the time certainly. And, of course, you know my English is rather precise, proper, as it was intended to be! WHY are you smiling and shaking your head?
BR: Never mind, just me being me! It’s a great book, JD. Wish we had more time because I’d like to mention “People With Real Lives Don’t Need Landscapes,” a book of poetry you wrote in 2003. You certainly have a way with words, JD, and I happen to love poetry. As Amazon puts it, “This big bouncy collection of contemporary poetry draws on both popular and high culture. The poems have energy, imagination, humor, and lively speech rhythms. They are light, weighty, topical, intellectual, gory, sad, wild, and tender all at once.”
JD: I didn’t write that.
BR: What?
JD: I didn’t write that collection of poetry. That was a different John Dolan.
BR: Are you sure?
JD: What do you mean, “Am I sure”? I’m not likely to forget a thing like that, am I? Sheesh! It’s scary how your brain can live in such a small space.
BR: That hurts, JD. Well,regardless, I loved your book “Everyone Burns” and can’t wait for the sequel. People should really take a long look at you, my friend…
JD: ‘My friend!’ My butt is sore here, BR!
BR: Filbert and Salome are napping right now. I’ll untie you, but, please, no fracas here. Tit for tat, remember? Be gentle.
Please follow John Dolan on twitter – @JohnDolanAuthor
Visit his website/blog (‘Galericulate’): http://johndolanwriter.blogspot.com/s... (You do not want to miss his posts!)
Also visit JD’s amazon site: http://goo.gl/nElP1 (amazon)
(Really, follow him and read him. He’s ugly mean: it took two junkies and me to get him here for this interview/review!)
This is a ‘Don’t Miss’ combo for you: an interview with a quality author and a partial review of his 5-Star book, “Everyone Burns.” If you have not had the pleasure of reading John Dolan you’ve missed a great experience from a writer extraordinaire. JD is truly a wordsmith for his times. He is also the man who introduced me and countless others to the word, ‘Galericulate’ — that’s the name of his website/blog. (See end of interview/review.) He’s the man hidden under the hat and he’s roaming around some continent or another. At last report, he was in Amsterdam. Meet John Dolan.
‘Burning’ John Dolan, writer extraordinaire – An Interview (Sort of!)
(Billy Ray Chitwood=BR) (John Dolan= JD)
BR: Okay, Filbert, take off the blindfold!
JD: Hey, not so rough! You just don’t take ‘no’ for an answer, do you?
BR: Why should I? You can leave us now, Filbert, and take Salome with you.
JD: You kidding me? ‘Salome!’ ‘Filbert!’ They’re ‘junkies…’
BR: Had no money…they grabbed you for the ‘grass.’
JD: Are you mocking me? Are you stealing my interview ideas?
BR: Show me a legal document!
JD: At least my chair is comfortable, and my straps are pure leather, not this cord crap!
BR: You left me no choice, JD, you broke your promise to take my books viral and…
JD: Correction! I said your books were vile and pretentious…
BR: Okay, okay, I understand you’re a bit angry…just some tit for tat, that’s all. I really like your book, “Everyone Burns,” and I’m thinking ‘movie,’ ‘TV series,’ something really big. Can we just relax and talk about the book?
JD: Can you at least put a cushion on this orange crate? You’re not helping my hemmies.
BR: How’s that? Better? Good…Now tell me about “Everyone Burns” and how you came to write it.
JD: Guess I got no choice, but you gotta promise me you’re not going to make a habit of this kind of interview. This is my idea, not yours. Do we have a deal?
BR: Yes, we have a deal…Hell, I thought you would be pleased!
JD: Well, I am, sort of, but this is intellectual property, not something you mess with, BR. Plus I only get one original idea per decade.
BR: Okay, no more kidnaps for interviews! Got it! Can we proceed?
JD: The events in “Everyone Burns” take place over seventeen days while Thailand is still numb from the giant tsunami of December, 2004. Like everyone of sane mind this great catastrophe made my emotions run wild, made me think of life like I had never really thought about it. “Everyone Burns” gave me some escape from the reality all around me.
BR: Really?
JD: No, not really. I wrote it for the money and the groupies.
BR: And how’s that working out?
JD: Probably about as well as it’s working out for you, I’d guess. Well … looking at you, probably slightly better with the groupies.
BR: Here’s a quote from ‘Everyone Burns, just after a bar fracas:
“To summarise, my life is one of split personality. I am in two minds about it myself. Nevertheless, down these narrow streets a man must walk, even if it is in flip-flops. But I am no Philip Marlowe, and Koh Samui is not film-noir USA. There is nothing of Hollywood’s black and white morality on this most colourful of Thailand’s Islands. And long overcoats just make you sweat in the sun. Here The Postman Never Rings Twice, simply because he never rings at all. He has better things to do. Lamai’s and Chaweng’s adventurers generally pack a condom, not a gun.”
You open the book with a broken cue stick inflicting injury to your protagonist and it’s like the excitement and action just never stops after that. I picked this quote because it’s one of my favorites but also because it gives the reader a sample of your splendid writing…Do you have any disagreement with my assessment here, JD?
JD: Take these cords off and I’ll kiss you. The passage is also a favorite of mine. Aside from the style thing in my writing, it is just basically who I am. But I’m NOT David Braddock, by the way. I want to make that clear in case my wife Fiona is reading this! A book of this genre for me has to move at a rapid pace, the action mostly non-stop. A lot of what I write about in “Everyone Burns” has some factual similarities, the people, the places, the time certainly. And, of course, you know my English is rather precise, proper, as it was intended to be! WHY are you smiling and shaking your head?
BR: Never mind, just me being me! It’s a great book, JD. Wish we had more time because I’d like to mention “People With Real Lives Don’t Need Landscapes,” a book of poetry you wrote in 2003. You certainly have a way with words, JD, and I happen to love poetry. As Amazon puts it, “This big bouncy collection of contemporary poetry draws on both popular and high culture. The poems have energy, imagination, humor, and lively speech rhythms. They are light, weighty, topical, intellectual, gory, sad, wild, and tender all at once.”
JD: I didn’t write that.
BR: What?
JD: I didn’t write that collection of poetry. That was a different John Dolan.
BR: Are you sure?
JD: What do you mean, “Am I sure”? I’m not likely to forget a thing like that, am I? Sheesh! It’s scary how your brain can live in such a small space.
BR: That hurts, JD. Well,regardless, I loved your book “Everyone Burns” and can’t wait for the sequel. People should really take a long look at you, my friend…
JD: ‘My friend!’ My butt is sore here, BR!
BR: Filbert and Salome are napping right now. I’ll untie you, but, please, no fracas here. Tit for tat, remember? Be gentle.
Please follow John Dolan on twitter – @JohnDolanAuthor
Visit his website/blog (‘Galericulate’): http://johndolanwriter.blogspot.com/s... (You do not want to miss his posts!)
Also visit JD’s amazon site: http://goo.gl/nElP1 (amazon)
(Really, follow him and read him. He’s ugly mean: it took two junkies and me to get him here for this interview/review!)
November 15, 2012
A Closet Dark With Fear
A Closet Dark With Fear
Posted on November 15, 2012 by billyraychitwood1
Thought I might try to titillate you with the first two pages of a ‘Prologue.’ Call me shameless because the ‘Prologue’ is from my novel, Mama’s Madness.
This book was taken from some true life events and it was tough to write. It startled me to think that mothers of such quantifiable evil existed and doled it out at regular intervals. There are no ‘spoilers’ here and perhaps you will want to read more. The good news is that these mothers from hell are hopefully outside the reach of those reading this small portion.
From Mama’s Madness by Billy Ray Chitwood:
PROLOGUE
-1985-
“Help me! Please help me!”
It is a piteous whimper, lost in the black void of the narrow closet. The weak and eerie sound of her own voice chills her more fiercely than the cold. The thought brings an aberrant amusement. Her own small voice frightens her!
A sound! A creaking sound. Far off. A footfall! Is it? No. It is not a footfall. It’s just one of the strange noises that comes in the night.
Is it night?
Time is lost. Time is gone from her world like a chunk of youth. The black hole draws her toward an uncertain vortex. She must close her eyes. But, not so tightly. She sees less with her eyes lightly closed. There is better control of her quivering body. With eyes open, the blackness comes alive with trickery.
Some crawling thing moves along her upper arm. That is her perception. She shifts and finds a wooden wall protrusion. A vertical beam. She moves her arm and body in back and forth rushes to accommodate the itch.
Her wrists are painfully numb and raw. The handcuffs seem now natural esxtensions of her hands.
Her shoulders ache in their sockets. They are taut from the pull of arms bound behind her back.
How long? God! It seems an eternity! A small lifetime she has lived in this palpable darkness. Maybe, it has been two days. The air has no texture or stir. It hangs there, stale and dank.
Her face is flushed with fever. It feels stiff and crusty from the tears running over her abrasive wounds. She squints and contorts. She opens and closes her mouth. There are sharp responses of pain. Her entire body feels leaden and bloated. When she moves there is a burning chaff between her thighs. A complacent soreness pervades. It no longer matters. Nor does the stench from her body’s waste matter.
It is her mind which throttles her. Whisks her off in searing flashes, abates, lingers amid the blackness. A fragile sentry. Both enemy and friend.
It is all happening again! She is next to die. Just like Celia. Was it a year ago? Two? Time, again, is elusive, lost. What does it matter? A year ago or an hour ago! Sarilee knows she is next. Just like Celia…
Mama had beaten Celia, too. Had gotten so mad she shot her. But the bullet didn’t kill Celia. The fire killed Celia. The bullet lodged in Celia’s back and stayed there for two years. Celia healed with the bullet there in her back. Then, Celia had wanted to leave home.
Was that one year ago?
For some unknown fathoming, Sarilee wants to be precise in her remembering. Somehow, it is important to remember this point.
Yes, it was a year ago. They were living in an apartment near the old trailer court where Mama used to live…
Okay, that’s just the first two pages of Mama’s Madness. It’s my hope that you’re interested enough to read more. It is a dark tale but there are some moments of recompense and justice.
It’s on amazon.com (Kindle and paperback). It’s on Nook at Barnes and Noble. It’s on amazonUK. It is also on other E-formats.
Posted on November 15, 2012 by billyraychitwood1
Thought I might try to titillate you with the first two pages of a ‘Prologue.’ Call me shameless because the ‘Prologue’ is from my novel, Mama’s Madness.
This book was taken from some true life events and it was tough to write. It startled me to think that mothers of such quantifiable evil existed and doled it out at regular intervals. There are no ‘spoilers’ here and perhaps you will want to read more. The good news is that these mothers from hell are hopefully outside the reach of those reading this small portion.
From Mama’s Madness by Billy Ray Chitwood:
PROLOGUE
-1985-
“Help me! Please help me!”
It is a piteous whimper, lost in the black void of the narrow closet. The weak and eerie sound of her own voice chills her more fiercely than the cold. The thought brings an aberrant amusement. Her own small voice frightens her!
A sound! A creaking sound. Far off. A footfall! Is it? No. It is not a footfall. It’s just one of the strange noises that comes in the night.
Is it night?
Time is lost. Time is gone from her world like a chunk of youth. The black hole draws her toward an uncertain vortex. She must close her eyes. But, not so tightly. She sees less with her eyes lightly closed. There is better control of her quivering body. With eyes open, the blackness comes alive with trickery.
Some crawling thing moves along her upper arm. That is her perception. She shifts and finds a wooden wall protrusion. A vertical beam. She moves her arm and body in back and forth rushes to accommodate the itch.
Her wrists are painfully numb and raw. The handcuffs seem now natural esxtensions of her hands.
Her shoulders ache in their sockets. They are taut from the pull of arms bound behind her back.
How long? God! It seems an eternity! A small lifetime she has lived in this palpable darkness. Maybe, it has been two days. The air has no texture or stir. It hangs there, stale and dank.
Her face is flushed with fever. It feels stiff and crusty from the tears running over her abrasive wounds. She squints and contorts. She opens and closes her mouth. There are sharp responses of pain. Her entire body feels leaden and bloated. When she moves there is a burning chaff between her thighs. A complacent soreness pervades. It no longer matters. Nor does the stench from her body’s waste matter.
It is her mind which throttles her. Whisks her off in searing flashes, abates, lingers amid the blackness. A fragile sentry. Both enemy and friend.
It is all happening again! She is next to die. Just like Celia. Was it a year ago? Two? Time, again, is elusive, lost. What does it matter? A year ago or an hour ago! Sarilee knows she is next. Just like Celia…
Mama had beaten Celia, too. Had gotten so mad she shot her. But the bullet didn’t kill Celia. The fire killed Celia. The bullet lodged in Celia’s back and stayed there for two years. Celia healed with the bullet there in her back. Then, Celia had wanted to leave home.
Was that one year ago?
For some unknown fathoming, Sarilee wants to be precise in her remembering. Somehow, it is important to remember this point.
Yes, it was a year ago. They were living in an apartment near the old trailer court where Mama used to live…
Okay, that’s just the first two pages of Mama’s Madness. It’s my hope that you’re interested enough to read more. It is a dark tale but there are some moments of recompense and justice.
It’s on amazon.com (Kindle and paperback). It’s on Nook at Barnes and Noble. It’s on amazonUK. It is also on other E-formats.
November 7, 2012
A Session At 'The Way Station'
Guess I write quite a bit about my feelings, about my life and times. Thought I would allow a small portion from one of my books to do the 'talking' in this post... The following is a section from 'The Way Station' (a euphemism for a Care Facility) in my book, "The Cracked Mirror - Reflections From An Appalachian Son." Prentice Paul Hiller is recovering from a complicated hip surgery, meets and bonds with a former Clinical Psychologist, Greta Fogel. Over the weeks of teasing and mental jousting, Greta has encouraged Prentice to write about his life and times, suggesting that it might be not only good therapy for him but that the end product should be a great read...
EXCERPT - from "The Cracked Mirror - Reflections Of An Appalachian Son" by Billy Ray Chitwood:
Having just settled in with my laptop, Greta came into the sun room. Without too much preamble, I moved the laptop to her lap, with the cursor set to start on the last two sections. "See what you think of these two sections," I said with a doubtful expression, "I'm ambivalent! Don't know if I went too overboard."
It took some time for her to read the sections. She paused time and again in very thoughtful poses.
When she was finished, she asked: "You want to talk now or later? Want me to leave you so you can write?"
"No, let's talk! First, Dorie seems really nice," I said.
"She's a really good lady. I'm very impressed. You're going to like her." She sat on the wicker chair near the window. Greta was wearing a lovely lavender sweater and beige pants outfit plus a new hairdo. Her eyes glowed with the combination.
"I already do. We had a chance to visit when she got here. She's a version of you, really!"
"Don't know about that, but I like her and I'm glad you do..." She paused for a second. "Shall we talk about these last two sections?"
"Really! You want to talk about the last two sections? Why do you think I shoved the laptop on your lap? Of course, sweet lady, let's talk about these sections...you read it and acted like you wanted to leave. You don't like the sections, do you?"
"Of course, I like the sections! You know I like your writing. You raised my eyebrows a bit, that's all. You surprised me!" She said with a slight nod and a wry smile.
"Bet I know why!" with a nod and smile of my own. "The 'Vickie' sex snapshot?"
"Well, certainly, that raised my eyebrows! And we won't dwell too long on that bit of memorabilia! However, it might surprise you to know that that kind of experience is not so uncommon, particularly when you consider the environment in which you lived, notwithstanding the criminal implications of Vickie's complicity in the seduction. No, it is not a pretty snapshot, and it does surprise me somewhat that you would make it part of your 'reflections,' although your penchant for honesty and ridiculing yourself would preclude your leaving it out." She was about to say more when I interrupted.
"It was such a vivid recall, Greta, like the earlier sex encounter with my pre-puberty aunt. It was somehow important for me to put it in, even knowing that is was highlighting depraved behavior..."
"I understand, Prentice. You need not justify it to me. You want the writing to portray the ultimate true picture of who you were then. It couldn't be any other way for you." She paused again, then went on.
"The 'Vickie snapshot' is not necessarily what I meant by 'raising' my eyebrows."
"Of what then do you speak, dear lady?" using my chivalrous tongue.
"I speak of your 'isms' section, EST and 'Tao Te Ching,' and your 'political views' section to the larger extent. What raised my brows and surprised me a bit was the length to which you've gone to find yourself, your belief system as it relates to your political morality. In other words, you're a man who strives so hard to find integrity in yourself and in others. You fight in your mind the battles of our times, wanting desperately to find a Utopia which you know does not exist. In some ways, you are an incurable romantic, a Don Quixote chasing 'windmills' you think are giants to be slain. You know your sins, Prentice! You know your faults, your errant ways! Your missed opportunities! And you're trying to make up for it all with the pages of your book." She paused, eyed me carefully with a fondness she would not hide. "And, you're doing a damned good job!"
"Whoa, wait a minute! There's something else you want to say. 'A damned good job' doesn't quite say it all, Greta. Come on, I can take it. It might hurt, a lot, but I can take it. I might never speak to you again, but take it, I shall!" She could see the last bit as mock and tease.
"Yes, a damned good job! I say what I mean, Mr. Hiller. And, yes, Mr. Hiller, there is something else to say..." Again, she paused, looked out the window at the lovely blue sky day. "What you put down is well written. You would be aware that some of your reading audience might not share your views. That, I know you know! Incidentally, I'm not one of those 'really smart people' to whom you refer, but I am non-partisan. What you want, I believe most people want. You write about it passionately and sincerely. How could I fault you? The chivalrous battles you fight with your writing are noble, patriotic, and good..." She paused yet again, then wistfully continued.
"Why, I'm not completely sure, but I'm thinking of those two great volumes of Spanish literature." She waited, pursed her lips in that cute little habitual way she had, and went on. "His neighbors thought him mad for all his dedicated reading of chivalry, but Alonso Quixano gave himself a new name, 'Don Quixote,' put on a suit of old armor and went off on his chivalrous quests with wild imaginings. He was at times beaten, ridiculed, and ultimately unintentionally betrayed by his dull-witted squire and neighbor, Sancho Panza. His quests, his imaginings, ended in a great melancholy. Alonso would put away his armor. The melancholy worsened with his age, and Sancho in the end tried to restore his faith. But Alonso Quixano died a broken man, and, with him, his alter ego, 'Don Quixote.'
"What does 'Don Quixote' have to do with what you're writing? The chivalry part, mostly. Though, at times, you do seem daft and wildly imaginative!" A pause for chuckles. "You write about many differnet things in yur life. You bemoan at times the sad states of your existence, your life style, your 'images' of the good life, your moods, your legacy. And, to repeat myself, you do a damned good job of it. If I have any concern, it comes from my fondness for you. I don't wish you to become 'melancholy and broken,' Prentice.
"Don't try so hard to make up for your life! This writing business, the process, is good for you. Use it for all the right reasons: the legacy thing, the self-ablution, as it were, the process itself. You are who you are. You will try too hard. You will continue to beat yourself. It's too late for the couch, not that you really ever needed it, but, if I could push but one button for you, it would be the button that makes you believe in yourself and makes you have more faith in the God who made you and accept whatever it is He intends for you. You are really a dear, dear man, and I don't wish to see you hurt so much."
She stopped talking and looked again out the big window, her face creased with a sadness beyond the mere interpretations she had rendered on the sections of my book. That sadness held me for a moment. Then, I decided to revert to my easy tactic of light patter.
"Well, Greta, you've totally blind-sided me! What the hell am I supposed to do with Don Quixote, Sancho Panza, and you?" smiling, with raised eyebrows. "Okay, methinks I get it. You're a sweetheart!" I closed the laptop and got up. "Come on, let's break out of this joint and find a Big Mac, fries, and coke."
Actually, 'Don Quixote' and I likely had a lot more in common than I might be willing to admit. Then, again, there might be more Sancho Panza in me than I might be willing to admit.
EXCERPT - from "The Cracked Mirror - Reflections Of An Appalachian Son" by Billy Ray Chitwood:
Having just settled in with my laptop, Greta came into the sun room. Without too much preamble, I moved the laptop to her lap, with the cursor set to start on the last two sections. "See what you think of these two sections," I said with a doubtful expression, "I'm ambivalent! Don't know if I went too overboard."
It took some time for her to read the sections. She paused time and again in very thoughtful poses.
When she was finished, she asked: "You want to talk now or later? Want me to leave you so you can write?"
"No, let's talk! First, Dorie seems really nice," I said.
"She's a really good lady. I'm very impressed. You're going to like her." She sat on the wicker chair near the window. Greta was wearing a lovely lavender sweater and beige pants outfit plus a new hairdo. Her eyes glowed with the combination.
"I already do. We had a chance to visit when she got here. She's a version of you, really!"
"Don't know about that, but I like her and I'm glad you do..." She paused for a second. "Shall we talk about these last two sections?"
"Really! You want to talk about the last two sections? Why do you think I shoved the laptop on your lap? Of course, sweet lady, let's talk about these sections...you read it and acted like you wanted to leave. You don't like the sections, do you?"
"Of course, I like the sections! You know I like your writing. You raised my eyebrows a bit, that's all. You surprised me!" She said with a slight nod and a wry smile.
"Bet I know why!" with a nod and smile of my own. "The 'Vickie' sex snapshot?"
"Well, certainly, that raised my eyebrows! And we won't dwell too long on that bit of memorabilia! However, it might surprise you to know that that kind of experience is not so uncommon, particularly when you consider the environment in which you lived, notwithstanding the criminal implications of Vickie's complicity in the seduction. No, it is not a pretty snapshot, and it does surprise me somewhat that you would make it part of your 'reflections,' although your penchant for honesty and ridiculing yourself would preclude your leaving it out." She was about to say more when I interrupted.
"It was such a vivid recall, Greta, like the earlier sex encounter with my pre-puberty aunt. It was somehow important for me to put it in, even knowing that is was highlighting depraved behavior..."
"I understand, Prentice. You need not justify it to me. You want the writing to portray the ultimate true picture of who you were then. It couldn't be any other way for you." She paused again, then went on.
"The 'Vickie snapshot' is not necessarily what I meant by 'raising' my eyebrows."
"Of what then do you speak, dear lady?" using my chivalrous tongue.
"I speak of your 'isms' section, EST and 'Tao Te Ching,' and your 'political views' section to the larger extent. What raised my brows and surprised me a bit was the length to which you've gone to find yourself, your belief system as it relates to your political morality. In other words, you're a man who strives so hard to find integrity in yourself and in others. You fight in your mind the battles of our times, wanting desperately to find a Utopia which you know does not exist. In some ways, you are an incurable romantic, a Don Quixote chasing 'windmills' you think are giants to be slain. You know your sins, Prentice! You know your faults, your errant ways! Your missed opportunities! And you're trying to make up for it all with the pages of your book." She paused, eyed me carefully with a fondness she would not hide. "And, you're doing a damned good job!"
"Whoa, wait a minute! There's something else you want to say. 'A damned good job' doesn't quite say it all, Greta. Come on, I can take it. It might hurt, a lot, but I can take it. I might never speak to you again, but take it, I shall!" She could see the last bit as mock and tease.
"Yes, a damned good job! I say what I mean, Mr. Hiller. And, yes, Mr. Hiller, there is something else to say..." Again, she paused, looked out the window at the lovely blue sky day. "What you put down is well written. You would be aware that some of your reading audience might not share your views. That, I know you know! Incidentally, I'm not one of those 'really smart people' to whom you refer, but I am non-partisan. What you want, I believe most people want. You write about it passionately and sincerely. How could I fault you? The chivalrous battles you fight with your writing are noble, patriotic, and good..." She paused yet again, then wistfully continued.
"Why, I'm not completely sure, but I'm thinking of those two great volumes of Spanish literature." She waited, pursed her lips in that cute little habitual way she had, and went on. "His neighbors thought him mad for all his dedicated reading of chivalry, but Alonso Quixano gave himself a new name, 'Don Quixote,' put on a suit of old armor and went off on his chivalrous quests with wild imaginings. He was at times beaten, ridiculed, and ultimately unintentionally betrayed by his dull-witted squire and neighbor, Sancho Panza. His quests, his imaginings, ended in a great melancholy. Alonso would put away his armor. The melancholy worsened with his age, and Sancho in the end tried to restore his faith. But Alonso Quixano died a broken man, and, with him, his alter ego, 'Don Quixote.'
"What does 'Don Quixote' have to do with what you're writing? The chivalry part, mostly. Though, at times, you do seem daft and wildly imaginative!" A pause for chuckles. "You write about many differnet things in yur life. You bemoan at times the sad states of your existence, your life style, your 'images' of the good life, your moods, your legacy. And, to repeat myself, you do a damned good job of it. If I have any concern, it comes from my fondness for you. I don't wish you to become 'melancholy and broken,' Prentice.
"Don't try so hard to make up for your life! This writing business, the process, is good for you. Use it for all the right reasons: the legacy thing, the self-ablution, as it were, the process itself. You are who you are. You will try too hard. You will continue to beat yourself. It's too late for the couch, not that you really ever needed it, but, if I could push but one button for you, it would be the button that makes you believe in yourself and makes you have more faith in the God who made you and accept whatever it is He intends for you. You are really a dear, dear man, and I don't wish to see you hurt so much."
She stopped talking and looked again out the big window, her face creased with a sadness beyond the mere interpretations she had rendered on the sections of my book. That sadness held me for a moment. Then, I decided to revert to my easy tactic of light patter.
"Well, Greta, you've totally blind-sided me! What the hell am I supposed to do with Don Quixote, Sancho Panza, and you?" smiling, with raised eyebrows. "Okay, methinks I get it. You're a sweetheart!" I closed the laptop and got up. "Come on, let's break out of this joint and find a Big Mac, fries, and coke."
Actually, 'Don Quixote' and I likely had a lot more in common than I might be willing to admit. Then, again, there might be more Sancho Panza in me than I might be willing to admit.
