Randy Mixter's Blog, page 2
September 26, 2012
A Time Machine
It was late at night in the courtyard of a hotel in the French Quarter of New Orleans when I took a trip back in time.
It had been a long night reminiscing with army buddies during a reunion this past summer. We talked about our days and nights in Vietnam, and I added my recollections to the conversation. At some point, we began to discuss the music we listened to while in our olive drab captivity.
In the army, in the 1960s, there were only three sources for music; the transistor radio, record albums, and reel to reel tapes. In Vietnam, armed forces radio was the only radio station available, and it wasn't much. The army's idea of rock and roll was The Association (they never got the drug references in 'Along Comes Mary') and Nancy Sinatra.
In 1967, when I was in Vietnam, the music industry was exploding with creativity. Groups like the Doors, The Grateful Dead, The Jefferson Airplane, and Moby Grape were rocking the bay area and The Beatles released 'Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band' to an unsuspecting world. None of this music made it to our radios. The songs were much too subversive. Strangely, the army post exchanges at Long Binh stocked the albums, and other psychedelic classics, and soon we were grooving to 'Light My Fire' and 'A Day In The Life' on our PX bought record players.
The more enterprising of us recorded their albums onto reel to reel tape decks, allowing hours of uninterrupted good vibes.That music provided the background for our lives back then. The music became an escape from the monotony of army discipline. It was our defiance. Our way of saying 'you have us for now, but in our hearts we'll always be civilians'.
That summer night in New Orleans I let the songs take me back. It was so easy. I simply closed my eyes and listened and, sure enough, a few came to me. Reach Out (I'll Be There), Cherish, Summer In The City, Walk Away Renee - Boot Camp. Good Vibrations, You Keep Me Hanging On - A.I.T. A Day In The Life, Summer Wine, Friday's Child, Windy, Light My Fire, Happy Together - Vietnam. Tuesday Afternoon, Green Tambourine, Pinball Wizard, In A Gadda-Da-Vida - Fort Monmouth.
Music is my time machine. Certain songs take me back to the days of my youth, to a specific time and place. All I have to do is hear the song in my head and I'm off, repeating adventures, meeting friends I thought I'd never see again, and revisiting places I thought were gone forever.
It's so easy to do, just close your eyes, climb aboard the song, and follow it home.
I was alone. My friends had called it a night. It was one o'clock in the morning in the courtyard of a hotel in the French Quarter of New Orleans and I went back in time.
Some journeys end in an instant, others last a lifetime.
It had been a long night reminiscing with army buddies during a reunion this past summer. We talked about our days and nights in Vietnam, and I added my recollections to the conversation. At some point, we began to discuss the music we listened to while in our olive drab captivity.
In the army, in the 1960s, there were only three sources for music; the transistor radio, record albums, and reel to reel tapes. In Vietnam, armed forces radio was the only radio station available, and it wasn't much. The army's idea of rock and roll was The Association (they never got the drug references in 'Along Comes Mary') and Nancy Sinatra.
In 1967, when I was in Vietnam, the music industry was exploding with creativity. Groups like the Doors, The Grateful Dead, The Jefferson Airplane, and Moby Grape were rocking the bay area and The Beatles released 'Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band' to an unsuspecting world. None of this music made it to our radios. The songs were much too subversive. Strangely, the army post exchanges at Long Binh stocked the albums, and other psychedelic classics, and soon we were grooving to 'Light My Fire' and 'A Day In The Life' on our PX bought record players.
The more enterprising of us recorded their albums onto reel to reel tape decks, allowing hours of uninterrupted good vibes.That music provided the background for our lives back then. The music became an escape from the monotony of army discipline. It was our defiance. Our way of saying 'you have us for now, but in our hearts we'll always be civilians'.
That summer night in New Orleans I let the songs take me back. It was so easy. I simply closed my eyes and listened and, sure enough, a few came to me. Reach Out (I'll Be There), Cherish, Summer In The City, Walk Away Renee - Boot Camp. Good Vibrations, You Keep Me Hanging On - A.I.T. A Day In The Life, Summer Wine, Friday's Child, Windy, Light My Fire, Happy Together - Vietnam. Tuesday Afternoon, Green Tambourine, Pinball Wizard, In A Gadda-Da-Vida - Fort Monmouth.
Music is my time machine. Certain songs take me back to the days of my youth, to a specific time and place. All I have to do is hear the song in my head and I'm off, repeating adventures, meeting friends I thought I'd never see again, and revisiting places I thought were gone forever.
It's so easy to do, just close your eyes, climb aboard the song, and follow it home.
I was alone. My friends had called it a night. It was one o'clock in the morning in the courtyard of a hotel in the French Quarter of New Orleans and I went back in time.
Some journeys end in an instant, others last a lifetime.
August 8, 2012
THE POSSIBILITY OF ENDINGS
I have decided that the book I am currently writing, Sorcerer, will be my last print book. There is a possibility I might write one or two more Jake Stanton novellas in the e-book format only. We'll see.
I have several reasons for my decision and I'll note them all. The first and foremost reason is that writing has been taking up far too much of my time. On top of that, as an independent author I must do my own marketing and promotion for each book I write. This part of the writing business never stops. The combination of each of these important functions means long hours in front of a computer screen while other matters of importance are neglected.
I understand that there are many writers who make this sacrifice willingly, some for the monetary benefits and all because they enjoy the creative process that writing is. I too love the thrill of finding friends and enemies in the characters I've created, or joining them on the page as we push through an adventure knowing the dangers but too reckless to care.
It is the magic of the story that brought me back time and time again. I originally planned on writing a book of short stories about growing up in the 1960s, stories based on my website of the same name. The book became The Boys Of Northwood. Then it was time to put a dream I once had on paper. The dream was of a beautiful girl who danced alone by the light of the Moon. The girl became Sarah, the place became the summer of love, and the novel became Sarah Of The Moon.
A short while after that I went through double bypass heart surgery, Afterwards I felt the need to gather up memories of my past, pieces of a time when I was young and fearless and my heart was as strong as steel. I sought out the letters I wrote to my wife Roni from Vietnam. She had safely stored away every letter I wrote. The hopes and fears of a 20 year old in a war-torn land were in those letters, as well as the love I had for a woman on the other side of the world. Letters From Long Binh: Memoirs of a Military Policeman in Vietnam was the result.
That could have been the end of it were it not for a crazy thought I had late one night while staring up at a starlit sky. What if there are other worlds, other universes, where carbon copies of us live. And what if, in the other universe, there might be some small glitches in the timeline of our lives. What if someone we lost in this world might be found in another. That very night I began to write Swan Loch.
And now the other reasons for my decision. I have become obsessive when it comes to my books. I get too discouraged when sales are down and too cocky when they're up. Worse yet, I have found that my skin is too thin when it comes to criticism. I know I'm not the only author who feels this way. No one likes being told their child might have to repeat a grade because his work just wasn't up to par. When this happens the tendency is to lash out, form your hands into fists and swing away. Shrug it off, we're told. Leave the bitterness and the anger behind. Move on. Easier said than done.
My writing brings in some money each month in the form of royalties from internet and retail sales. It is not nearly enough to support my family. Thankfully there is other income, but the fact remains that at one time I did think I may one day become rich and famous from writing. I have not given up on that goal. I am nothing if not a dreamer. But I know it is a fantasy most likely never to play out in my lifetime.
And so, soon, I will move on to other things. My video production business in healthy and strong, and a close friend wants me to join him in an internet music sales venture which holds promise if done properly.
I would like to think that my books will be the legacy I leave behind. I would hope they are passed down through the hands of my grandchildren to their children and beyond. I would hope my books will always find a home on a bright internet page or in a dark dusty corner of a small bookstore.
And I would like to think that Sarah will always dance by the light of a moon in a summer that has no end, only beginnings.
I have several reasons for my decision and I'll note them all. The first and foremost reason is that writing has been taking up far too much of my time. On top of that, as an independent author I must do my own marketing and promotion for each book I write. This part of the writing business never stops. The combination of each of these important functions means long hours in front of a computer screen while other matters of importance are neglected.
I understand that there are many writers who make this sacrifice willingly, some for the monetary benefits and all because they enjoy the creative process that writing is. I too love the thrill of finding friends and enemies in the characters I've created, or joining them on the page as we push through an adventure knowing the dangers but too reckless to care.
It is the magic of the story that brought me back time and time again. I originally planned on writing a book of short stories about growing up in the 1960s, stories based on my website of the same name. The book became The Boys Of Northwood. Then it was time to put a dream I once had on paper. The dream was of a beautiful girl who danced alone by the light of the Moon. The girl became Sarah, the place became the summer of love, and the novel became Sarah Of The Moon.
A short while after that I went through double bypass heart surgery, Afterwards I felt the need to gather up memories of my past, pieces of a time when I was young and fearless and my heart was as strong as steel. I sought out the letters I wrote to my wife Roni from Vietnam. She had safely stored away every letter I wrote. The hopes and fears of a 20 year old in a war-torn land were in those letters, as well as the love I had for a woman on the other side of the world. Letters From Long Binh: Memoirs of a Military Policeman in Vietnam was the result.
That could have been the end of it were it not for a crazy thought I had late one night while staring up at a starlit sky. What if there are other worlds, other universes, where carbon copies of us live. And what if, in the other universe, there might be some small glitches in the timeline of our lives. What if someone we lost in this world might be found in another. That very night I began to write Swan Loch.
And now the other reasons for my decision. I have become obsessive when it comes to my books. I get too discouraged when sales are down and too cocky when they're up. Worse yet, I have found that my skin is too thin when it comes to criticism. I know I'm not the only author who feels this way. No one likes being told their child might have to repeat a grade because his work just wasn't up to par. When this happens the tendency is to lash out, form your hands into fists and swing away. Shrug it off, we're told. Leave the bitterness and the anger behind. Move on. Easier said than done.
My writing brings in some money each month in the form of royalties from internet and retail sales. It is not nearly enough to support my family. Thankfully there is other income, but the fact remains that at one time I did think I may one day become rich and famous from writing. I have not given up on that goal. I am nothing if not a dreamer. But I know it is a fantasy most likely never to play out in my lifetime.
And so, soon, I will move on to other things. My video production business in healthy and strong, and a close friend wants me to join him in an internet music sales venture which holds promise if done properly.
I would like to think that my books will be the legacy I leave behind. I would hope they are passed down through the hands of my grandchildren to their children and beyond. I would hope my books will always find a home on a bright internet page or in a dark dusty corner of a small bookstore.
And I would like to think that Sarah will always dance by the light of a moon in a summer that has no end, only beginnings.
July 19, 2012
Break Time
Eight years ago, in 2004, I had a heart attack. I woke up in early on the Saturday morning before Labor Day and knew something was wrong. I didn't have any chest pains but my left arm hurt and I felt sick to my stomach (my wife Roni said I was sweating heavily also).
Roni drove me to the local hospital and, after a nitro pill, I felt much better. I wanted out but Roni and an insistent nurse persuaded me to stay. A good thing as it turned out. About two hours later I had a serious heart attack, a sharp chest pain, chest heaviness, the whole bit. I was told later by a doctor, I survived that one only because of an attached nitro-glycerin drip.
Two days later I had a stent in an artery instead of a blockage.Everyone said I should feel better, but I didn't. In fact, as the weeks passed, I felt progressively worse. Two months later I decided I should take another stress test. By this time I could barely make it up a flight of stairs.
As I suspected, the test did not go well. My cardiologist called me that same evening and advised me to seek hospitalization. And so here I was again, a scant eight weeks after my first surgery, back in a hospital bed.
A second stent was put in another artery.
Three weeks later, while sitting in my cardiologist's office, he asked me if I was a religious man. I told him yes. I turned out that a major blood vessel leading to my heart had ruptured (probably aggravated during the first stent operation). It had collapsed over 90%. A 100% collapse, according to my doctor, would have almost certainly been fatal.
After that, I had a few years of feeling pretty good health-wise, but two years ago I began to tire easily doing chores around the house, like cutting the grass. Things just didn't feel right.
Another stress test and another heart catherization. This time the worst possible news. I needed heart bypass surgery. I'll spare you the gory details and just add that I would never again want to go through the trauma of the procedure or the long recovery.
I went in for my two year post-op stress test on Monday, July 16, 2012. Later that same day my cardiologist called me. Everything looked great. My arteries were strong with not even the smallest blockage. They were pumping blood like there was no tomorrow. So now I have my tomorrows and, at least for now, I feel blessed. There have been so many close shaves in my life, so many times when I should have died.
In my latest life I have become a writer of sorts. I'd like to think I'm good at it, but it makes little difference to me. I enjoy writing and will continue to do so for as long as I'm able.
This summer I took a break from writing to catch up on my reading and, of course, put a dent in my chores list. When the weather cools I'll begin to write again. I have the beginning and end to my new novel on paper. Much like life, the adventure is always in the many pages between.
Roni drove me to the local hospital and, after a nitro pill, I felt much better. I wanted out but Roni and an insistent nurse persuaded me to stay. A good thing as it turned out. About two hours later I had a serious heart attack, a sharp chest pain, chest heaviness, the whole bit. I was told later by a doctor, I survived that one only because of an attached nitro-glycerin drip.
Two days later I had a stent in an artery instead of a blockage.Everyone said I should feel better, but I didn't. In fact, as the weeks passed, I felt progressively worse. Two months later I decided I should take another stress test. By this time I could barely make it up a flight of stairs.
As I suspected, the test did not go well. My cardiologist called me that same evening and advised me to seek hospitalization. And so here I was again, a scant eight weeks after my first surgery, back in a hospital bed.
A second stent was put in another artery.
Three weeks later, while sitting in my cardiologist's office, he asked me if I was a religious man. I told him yes. I turned out that a major blood vessel leading to my heart had ruptured (probably aggravated during the first stent operation). It had collapsed over 90%. A 100% collapse, according to my doctor, would have almost certainly been fatal.
After that, I had a few years of feeling pretty good health-wise, but two years ago I began to tire easily doing chores around the house, like cutting the grass. Things just didn't feel right.
Another stress test and another heart catherization. This time the worst possible news. I needed heart bypass surgery. I'll spare you the gory details and just add that I would never again want to go through the trauma of the procedure or the long recovery.
I went in for my two year post-op stress test on Monday, July 16, 2012. Later that same day my cardiologist called me. Everything looked great. My arteries were strong with not even the smallest blockage. They were pumping blood like there was no tomorrow. So now I have my tomorrows and, at least for now, I feel blessed. There have been so many close shaves in my life, so many times when I should have died.
In my latest life I have become a writer of sorts. I'd like to think I'm good at it, but it makes little difference to me. I enjoy writing and will continue to do so for as long as I'm able.
This summer I took a break from writing to catch up on my reading and, of course, put a dent in my chores list. When the weather cools I'll begin to write again. I have the beginning and end to my new novel on paper. Much like life, the adventure is always in the many pages between.
June 28, 2012
SUMMER DAZE
In case anyone is wondering why there has been a shortage of blogs from me lately, I have a simple two word answer; the summer.
Since I was a child I've never been able to say no to the summer sun. It beckoned me from my bed in my youth and it beckons me from my computer today. Simply put, I cannot bear to be indoors while a warm breeze blows outside my office window.
It was like that when I had a job and little choice but to stay indoors, as the summer passed me by, in a cubicle surrounded by people of an equally sour disposition.
Now, retired, I've become a child again, free of school, free of responsibility (well, maybe not that). I own the summer once more. I am free to walk park trails, or maybe ride my bike on them. I can hop in my car and roll down the windows and push through a July day on the road of my choice. Or maybe I will be content to laze about on my backyard deck and think of summers past.
As the years roll on faster and faster and the days in the sun get shorter, I find solace knowing each minute outside was a minute well spent. It's in those minutes that I'll live for the next three months. It took a great many years, but the summer belongs to me again and I won't let it go.
Since I was a child I've never been able to say no to the summer sun. It beckoned me from my bed in my youth and it beckons me from my computer today. Simply put, I cannot bear to be indoors while a warm breeze blows outside my office window.
It was like that when I had a job and little choice but to stay indoors, as the summer passed me by, in a cubicle surrounded by people of an equally sour disposition.
Now, retired, I've become a child again, free of school, free of responsibility (well, maybe not that). I own the summer once more. I am free to walk park trails, or maybe ride my bike on them. I can hop in my car and roll down the windows and push through a July day on the road of my choice. Or maybe I will be content to laze about on my backyard deck and think of summers past.
As the years roll on faster and faster and the days in the sun get shorter, I find solace knowing each minute outside was a minute well spent. It's in those minutes that I'll live for the next three months. It took a great many years, but the summer belongs to me again and I won't let it go.
May 30, 2012
Fair Is Fair
I have found two excellent proofreaders and editors in my wife and her sister, Joan. Both think alike and pick up on many of the same grammatical errors. And here's the good thing. One always finds what the other one misses. Another good thing. They both offer excellent suggestions to tighten up the story timeline and the plot in general. They instinctively know story pacing. A third good thing. They work for free. Well, at least my sister-in-law does. My wife runs a tally on the hours she puts in looking through my pages. The time starts when she picks up her red pen and it ends when she sets it down. At some point I have to match the hours with house chores or other forms of physical labor
She worked 14 hours on Swan Loch. I know this because she posted the hours on the refrigerator door. She then broke the hours down by chores and by the amount of time it would take to complete each one.
Here is the way it looked:
Weed the garden- 4 hours
Paint the spare bedroom - 8 hours
Stain the backyard deck - 6 hours
Total - 14 hours
My wife may be good at editing but her math skills aren't much. No sense in arguing about it. All in all, it's still a good deal. Thanks to her and her sister, Swan Loch will be available for sale within days.
Now I must run. I need to get a jump on my editor's 'fair is fair' list. Lets see, paint the spare bedroom- 8 hours. Sounds like a plan.
She worked 14 hours on Swan Loch. I know this because she posted the hours on the refrigerator door. She then broke the hours down by chores and by the amount of time it would take to complete each one.
Here is the way it looked:
Weed the garden- 4 hours
Paint the spare bedroom - 8 hours
Stain the backyard deck - 6 hours
Total - 14 hours
My wife may be good at editing but her math skills aren't much. No sense in arguing about it. All in all, it's still a good deal. Thanks to her and her sister, Swan Loch will be available for sale within days.
Now I must run. I need to get a jump on my editor's 'fair is fair' list. Lets see, paint the spare bedroom- 8 hours. Sounds like a plan.
April 26, 2012
Decisions, Decisions
Whenever I finish writing a book, I face a dilemma of sorts. Should I take a breather and wait two, three weeks, or longer, before I begin my next book, or should I just get right down to it and crank out another one. The second option is probably the best. It seems that the more books one has available for sale, the more money one is likely to make. But then the question becomes what to write?
The truth of the matter is, I have no idea as to the plot of my next book. I know I want the book to revolve around a character in my latest novel, Swan Loch. I want to place my character in a couple of bad situations and see if he can work his (or her) way out of them, but that's about it.
Of course, not knowing what happens until it does has never stopped me before. Before I wrote my last two novels, I knew how they began and how they ended , but that was it. Each time I had entered a race knowing a finish line was in the far distance but with no knowledge of the obstacles in between.
Most authors have a general idea of a story in their heads before the first page is typed. Some have the basic plot premise written down in outline form. The thrill for me is flying by the seat of my pants. I love to create scenarios as I write. And I enjoy bringing unexpected characters (both heroic and evil) into the mix. For me that is the difference between going on an adventure or typing out a homework assignment.
I imagine there will be times when I've pretty much figured out who will win and who will lose. Who will get the girl and who will go home empty handed. But right now, I'll take the thrill of the unknown.
Now where was I? Oh yeah. I think I'm going to take the first option and enjoy some time off, maybe a month or so, to catch up on my reading and work on my tan. As for my characters (and I'm talking to you Jake), I'll say don't worry, I won't forget about you. I promise I will place you in a hair raising situation or two before the summer ends.
Please be patient and stay out of trouble until then.
The truth of the matter is, I have no idea as to the plot of my next book. I know I want the book to revolve around a character in my latest novel, Swan Loch. I want to place my character in a couple of bad situations and see if he can work his (or her) way out of them, but that's about it.
Of course, not knowing what happens until it does has never stopped me before. Before I wrote my last two novels, I knew how they began and how they ended , but that was it. Each time I had entered a race knowing a finish line was in the far distance but with no knowledge of the obstacles in between.
Most authors have a general idea of a story in their heads before the first page is typed. Some have the basic plot premise written down in outline form. The thrill for me is flying by the seat of my pants. I love to create scenarios as I write. And I enjoy bringing unexpected characters (both heroic and evil) into the mix. For me that is the difference between going on an adventure or typing out a homework assignment.
I imagine there will be times when I've pretty much figured out who will win and who will lose. Who will get the girl and who will go home empty handed. But right now, I'll take the thrill of the unknown.
Now where was I? Oh yeah. I think I'm going to take the first option and enjoy some time off, maybe a month or so, to catch up on my reading and work on my tan. As for my characters (and I'm talking to you Jake), I'll say don't worry, I won't forget about you. I promise I will place you in a hair raising situation or two before the summer ends.
Please be patient and stay out of trouble until then.
April 11, 2012
Keeping Up With My Chores
My wife Roni gets irritated when I write. What I mean when I say that is this; my wife feels strongly that there are much better ways for me to spend my time at home while she works. That's the catch, you see. She's working and I'm at home relaxing in front of the computer all day. In the meantime, important house chores are being neglected.
The yard is not mowed as often as it should. I am told weekly is the correct timeline. Clothes are not being washed (I believe three times a week is the prescribed schedule for this). And, I'm afraid I've also been negligent in the basic housecleaning assignments such as vacuuming, dusting, and maintaining a sterile bathroom.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not a slob by any means. It's just that I feel I have more important ways to spend my time.
When I informed my wife of this fact, she immediately drew up a weekly house chore work schedule, scanned it, then ran off several copies on the computer. These copies were then placed throughout the house, in places she knew they would be seen. My computer monitor received one, as did my pillow (over and under). Whenever I thought I had found them all, another would pop up. Removing the offending paperwork was an exercise in futility. They would always be back in the same spot the next day.
I'll never understand how she accomplished this without help, but I must admit that her strategy worked. She wore me down. It took more effort to find and remove the lists than it would have to implement her demands.
She won, as she always has and always will. I now do my chores regularly as told. My wife is happy. The house is clean. The grass is mowed. Everything is right with the world.
My writing took a small hit, but I still find ample time for it. Occasionally I still find a list while going about my business. Each time I do, my wife assures me that it was paperwork I missed the first time around. As for me, I'm not so sure, but I can't be worried about that now. I have vacuuming to do.
The yard is not mowed as often as it should. I am told weekly is the correct timeline. Clothes are not being washed (I believe three times a week is the prescribed schedule for this). And, I'm afraid I've also been negligent in the basic housecleaning assignments such as vacuuming, dusting, and maintaining a sterile bathroom.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not a slob by any means. It's just that I feel I have more important ways to spend my time.
When I informed my wife of this fact, she immediately drew up a weekly house chore work schedule, scanned it, then ran off several copies on the computer. These copies were then placed throughout the house, in places she knew they would be seen. My computer monitor received one, as did my pillow (over and under). Whenever I thought I had found them all, another would pop up. Removing the offending paperwork was an exercise in futility. They would always be back in the same spot the next day.
I'll never understand how she accomplished this without help, but I must admit that her strategy worked. She wore me down. It took more effort to find and remove the lists than it would have to implement her demands.
She won, as she always has and always will. I now do my chores regularly as told. My wife is happy. The house is clean. The grass is mowed. Everything is right with the world.
My writing took a small hit, but I still find ample time for it. Occasionally I still find a list while going about my business. Each time I do, my wife assures me that it was paperwork I missed the first time around. As for me, I'm not so sure, but I can't be worried about that now. I have vacuuming to do.
March 28, 2012
Leaving Friends Behind
As I near completion of my latest novel, I find myself torn between relief and sadness. I'm not alone in saying that, while writing, one becomes attached to the characters he or she creates. When writing Sarah Of The Moon I constantly worried about the well being of Sarah, Alex, and Matt. Even Chick, with his stubborn ways, drew my sympathies from time to time. I wondered if, once I left them, they would find happiness in their lives, or fulfill their hopes and wishes.
Now, as Swan Loch draws to an end, I again feel concern for those left behind. One character will follow me into a few more books, but the others must find their way on their own.
Each novel begins with a journey into strange places with unfamiliar faces.The joy of writing is discovering characters as they are written, growing with them, and then testing their strengths and weaknesses in harsh and sometimes cruel ways. The hope is that they will survive their ordeals and emerge on the other side as better human beings.
We, as writers, have temporary custody of those who roam the pages of our books. They are in our care from the day of their creation until the day we say goodbye. It is our responsibility to look after them even as we place obstacles in their path.
And so ultimately it is sad to leave my friends behind. For the months we were together they were a part of me, a member of my family. It makes sad to say goodbye even as I move on to new friends and new adventures.
I would like to think they will have fond memories of me. I know I'll never forget them.
Now, as Swan Loch draws to an end, I again feel concern for those left behind. One character will follow me into a few more books, but the others must find their way on their own.
Each novel begins with a journey into strange places with unfamiliar faces.The joy of writing is discovering characters as they are written, growing with them, and then testing their strengths and weaknesses in harsh and sometimes cruel ways. The hope is that they will survive their ordeals and emerge on the other side as better human beings.
We, as writers, have temporary custody of those who roam the pages of our books. They are in our care from the day of their creation until the day we say goodbye. It is our responsibility to look after them even as we place obstacles in their path.
And so ultimately it is sad to leave my friends behind. For the months we were together they were a part of me, a member of my family. It makes sad to say goodbye even as I move on to new friends and new adventures.
I would like to think they will have fond memories of me. I know I'll never forget them.
March 14, 2012
So Boring!
It's easy for us, as authors, to fall back on old habits. I'm referring to the discipline it requires to sit in front of a computer monitor and type words onto a keyboard for three or four hours a day. It begins after a while to feel too much like work. When that happens, it's break time.
Here's where the old habits come into play. I find myself getting restless at around the same time the characters in my book are getting bored with their lives, usually somewhere in the middle of the story.
This often occurred at work too. When I would get bored with what I was doing, I'd start looking for excuses to do something else.
Nowadays, when this happens, if the phone rings I pick it up. Something never done when I'm at a crucial juncture in my story. I might even find myself entertaining the ideas of telemarketers, asking them to go over that thing about a free iPad one more time. Or, if the phone remains silent, I might again browse the same internet sites I left mere minutes before, hoping for a new e-mail or a freshly posted movie review on Rotten Tomatoes.
Old habits are hard to break, even as you know the longer it takes to write the book, the longer it will take before publication.
Soon I will push through the center of my story and begin the rapid free-fall to its dramatic end. Until then I resign myself to the gods of the internet and to the fate of the telemarketers.
Hey, anybody interested in a free month at Planet Fitness?
Here's where the old habits come into play. I find myself getting restless at around the same time the characters in my book are getting bored with their lives, usually somewhere in the middle of the story.
This often occurred at work too. When I would get bored with what I was doing, I'd start looking for excuses to do something else.
Nowadays, when this happens, if the phone rings I pick it up. Something never done when I'm at a crucial juncture in my story. I might even find myself entertaining the ideas of telemarketers, asking them to go over that thing about a free iPad one more time. Or, if the phone remains silent, I might again browse the same internet sites I left mere minutes before, hoping for a new e-mail or a freshly posted movie review on Rotten Tomatoes.
Old habits are hard to break, even as you know the longer it takes to write the book, the longer it will take before publication.
Soon I will push through the center of my story and begin the rapid free-fall to its dramatic end. Until then I resign myself to the gods of the internet and to the fate of the telemarketers.
Hey, anybody interested in a free month at Planet Fitness?
March 5, 2012
Looking Back
Lately, as I grow older, I find myself reminiscing more about the past and the many adventures I had when I was young. Back then, when I was a teenager, the years seemed to stick to me like glue. The winters were long and filled with snow. The summers lasted forever, and I remember those days as always being sunny and warm and the nights filled with stars.
Each adventure became a stepping stone to the next one, knowing a greater thrill waited patiently behind each tree, and every dark shadow.
We were once the kings and queens of our separate universes and though our realms were small, they were ours and ours alone. Each day brought some new excitement our way. It might be something as simple as a vine on a tree, perfect for swinging out over rushing water of a stream, or the sheer joy of hearing Del Shannon sing Runaway on a small transistor radio.
I'd like to think that I left a part of me behind in those days. A part of me that still runs free through a summer wind on a cloudless day that might just last forever if I wish it to.
Maybe one day I'll go back. I'll take my wife with me for she once lived nearby, in the next kingdom over. She will smile and nod as I point out the landmarks of my youth and the stories attached to them. She has heard the stories before and will surely hear them again, but she'll let me talk for she knows their meaning to me.
And when I tell these tales of adventures long ago, the time seems to slow and I am once again young, in a summer that may never end.
Each adventure became a stepping stone to the next one, knowing a greater thrill waited patiently behind each tree, and every dark shadow.
We were once the kings and queens of our separate universes and though our realms were small, they were ours and ours alone. Each day brought some new excitement our way. It might be something as simple as a vine on a tree, perfect for swinging out over rushing water of a stream, or the sheer joy of hearing Del Shannon sing Runaway on a small transistor radio.
I'd like to think that I left a part of me behind in those days. A part of me that still runs free through a summer wind on a cloudless day that might just last forever if I wish it to.
Maybe one day I'll go back. I'll take my wife with me for she once lived nearby, in the next kingdom over. She will smile and nod as I point out the landmarks of my youth and the stories attached to them. She has heard the stories before and will surely hear them again, but she'll let me talk for she knows their meaning to me.
And when I tell these tales of adventures long ago, the time seems to slow and I am once again young, in a summer that may never end.
