Sarah Black's Blog: Book Report, page 19
March 14, 2011
boy saved from nagging mother by flash fiction!
A Towering Taco Salad of Love
He brings home a note from the school nurse, height and weight. 6’5”, 245 pounds. I can smell cookies on his breath, and I spot a bottle of Diet Dr. Pepper sticking out of his coat pocket. I do a quick sweep of his bedroom, find an empty bag from Albertson’s, chocolate chip cookies, ditto Doritos bag, (family sized, that I did not buy), both under his desk. Also another empty Diet Dr. Pepper very near to his trashcan. Further investigation leads to a Mr. Goodbar wrapper, age unknown, and a Milky Way, mint, in the pocket of a sweatshirt jacket.
We discuss the purpose of the trashcan and the purpose of the allowance. He offers that the trash on his floor is very near to the trashcan and I offer something about no cigar, in return. I print off a color copy of the food pyramid at work, and tape it up on his bedroom wall, next to his computer.
Eating healthy food would be a good idea for us as a family, would it not? He offers to take us out to McDonald’s, his treat, a healthy restaurant where I can get a side salad. He admits he doesn’t actually have any money, since his allowance is set aside for pumpkin pies for his math class on pi day. (3.14, he says, offering proof of the efficacy of this lesson).
We are in a state of détente. The ladies in the cafeteria at school report he has a snack of a cinnamon bun or two at break time, around ten, then lunch at twelve thirty. He usually has two lunches, but they beam and chuckle and tell me he is growing and is always hungry! What a good eater! What excellent manners! He is such a nice boy. He knows how to get on the good side of ladies behind cafeteria lines.
I cut off his allowance and strongly recommend he be satisfied with one lunch at school. He is not happy, but he doesn’t understand the images in my mind, of him at 250, then 300, then 500 pounds, now he’s 700 pounds, now he can’t get out of the door of his apartment, he’s both too tall and too wide, and if there’s a fire, he’ll burn up, and if he has a heart attack, the paramedics will have to cut through the walls to get to him. It’s happened before and I’m sure if those boy’s mothers had the opportunity to go back and nip some bad habits in the bud, they would take that opportunity.
I think I put too much love in his food. Breast milk and organic bananas as an infant, even well past infancy, if I must tell the truth, and he never even noticed when I decorated his peanut butter sandwiches with raisins, little smiling faces of iron to make his blood strong. At this point, though, he’s eighteen, and I am quite exhausted by it all, by the cooking and eating and feeding the boy, pouring my love into him three times a day, with snacks. For myself I would just like a salad.
We’re having taco salad for dinner. Three types of lettuce, with organic spinach, cucumbers, onions, tomatoes; I cook a pound of hamburger in some salsa. I mound up the salad on the plates, and pour the meat and salsa over the cinder-cone of lettuce so it runs down the sides like lava. His eyes light up.
“There are lots of ways you can have salad as a healthy, main-dish meal,” I offer. He’s eating very fast, his cheeks bulging. “Slow down! What’s the big hurry? You’re going to choke.” He tries to swallow. “Are you choking? You look like you need the Heimlich Maneuver.”
“There’s a new Power Ranger’s episode coming on in ten minutes,” he says. He shovels the last forkful into his mouth, throws up both hands like he’s just fallen across the finish line, a fierce sprint. “Thanks, Mom.” His voice is very thick. “That was great, but it would be even better with some cheese on top.”
“Could I suggest you learn to be happy with what I give you?”
“What do we have for desert?”
“There’re some Skinny Cow ice cream sandwiches in the freezer. You can have one. Only a hundred and forty calories, with no added sugar.” I got the large package of Skinny Cows, with mint flavor, chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry. They come in cones, too. I bet he would like the cones.
In the middle of the night, I hear footsteps on the kitchen floor, and the sound of the freezer door quietly opening.
He brings home a note from the school nurse, height and weight. 6’5”, 245 pounds. I can smell cookies on his breath, and I spot a bottle of Diet Dr. Pepper sticking out of his coat pocket. I do a quick sweep of his bedroom, find an empty bag from Albertson’s, chocolate chip cookies, ditto Doritos bag, (family sized, that I did not buy), both under his desk. Also another empty Diet Dr. Pepper very near to his trashcan. Further investigation leads to a Mr. Goodbar wrapper, age unknown, and a Milky Way, mint, in the pocket of a sweatshirt jacket.
We discuss the purpose of the trashcan and the purpose of the allowance. He offers that the trash on his floor is very near to the trashcan and I offer something about no cigar, in return. I print off a color copy of the food pyramid at work, and tape it up on his bedroom wall, next to his computer.
Eating healthy food would be a good idea for us as a family, would it not? He offers to take us out to McDonald’s, his treat, a healthy restaurant where I can get a side salad. He admits he doesn’t actually have any money, since his allowance is set aside for pumpkin pies for his math class on pi day. (3.14, he says, offering proof of the efficacy of this lesson).
We are in a state of détente. The ladies in the cafeteria at school report he has a snack of a cinnamon bun or two at break time, around ten, then lunch at twelve thirty. He usually has two lunches, but they beam and chuckle and tell me he is growing and is always hungry! What a good eater! What excellent manners! He is such a nice boy. He knows how to get on the good side of ladies behind cafeteria lines.
I cut off his allowance and strongly recommend he be satisfied with one lunch at school. He is not happy, but he doesn’t understand the images in my mind, of him at 250, then 300, then 500 pounds, now he’s 700 pounds, now he can’t get out of the door of his apartment, he’s both too tall and too wide, and if there’s a fire, he’ll burn up, and if he has a heart attack, the paramedics will have to cut through the walls to get to him. It’s happened before and I’m sure if those boy’s mothers had the opportunity to go back and nip some bad habits in the bud, they would take that opportunity.
I think I put too much love in his food. Breast milk and organic bananas as an infant, even well past infancy, if I must tell the truth, and he never even noticed when I decorated his peanut butter sandwiches with raisins, little smiling faces of iron to make his blood strong. At this point, though, he’s eighteen, and I am quite exhausted by it all, by the cooking and eating and feeding the boy, pouring my love into him three times a day, with snacks. For myself I would just like a salad.
We’re having taco salad for dinner. Three types of lettuce, with organic spinach, cucumbers, onions, tomatoes; I cook a pound of hamburger in some salsa. I mound up the salad on the plates, and pour the meat and salsa over the cinder-cone of lettuce so it runs down the sides like lava. His eyes light up.
“There are lots of ways you can have salad as a healthy, main-dish meal,” I offer. He’s eating very fast, his cheeks bulging. “Slow down! What’s the big hurry? You’re going to choke.” He tries to swallow. “Are you choking? You look like you need the Heimlich Maneuver.”
“There’s a new Power Ranger’s episode coming on in ten minutes,” he says. He shovels the last forkful into his mouth, throws up both hands like he’s just fallen across the finish line, a fierce sprint. “Thanks, Mom.” His voice is very thick. “That was great, but it would be even better with some cheese on top.”
“Could I suggest you learn to be happy with what I give you?”
“What do we have for desert?”
“There’re some Skinny Cow ice cream sandwiches in the freezer. You can have one. Only a hundred and forty calories, with no added sugar.” I got the large package of Skinny Cows, with mint flavor, chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry. They come in cones, too. I bet he would like the cones.
In the middle of the night, I hear footsteps on the kitchen floor, and the sound of the freezer door quietly opening.
March 11, 2011
Into the deep dark uglies
I just erased everything I wrote yesterday, because it was crap, and to quote the great Ira Glass on storytelling, "not enough gets said about abandoning crap."
I'm not down about it, though, because I realized I had a new story, and I wrote an entire scene bringing in a character from an old story. He did not belong there but clearly I was lonely for him!
So maybe I haven't spent enough time thinking through the new story, called Red Shoes for a Beautiful Heart. I visit a few writing blogs, hoping someone will tell me either a) what the hell is wrong with me, b) the first line to the next scene, or c) something so profound and meaningful about writing and my new story in particular that a fire is lit under my ass and my fingers take off across the keyboard like startled blackbirds in flight.
Happily, I can report the winner is c. First I listened to several youtube videos about storytelling by Ira Glass and Scott Simon, made notes to myself about using vivid details and such; made a post-it note for the wall that said, "the story should have a point" (good to remember). Then I visited Writer Unboxed and read an article by Donald Maass about using fear.
Okay, the problem with using fear and putting characters in fearful situations is since I am living in the character's head, my stomach can spend months in knots, suffering along with; and since we are talking about internal conflict and internal fears, these are even worse. I mean, sure you can be afraid of a man with a gun jumping out of the alleyway, but really, what's worse- making your character face their deepest fears, make him see the worst in himself, and try to fix it, or the man with the gun? I'd take the gun in a New York minute.
Oh, wait! Hold the presses! Making a character face what he fears most about himself is not the same thing as making the writer face the worst in herself! This is fiction, damnit! Third fucking person! Yipee! Oh, God, that was exhausting. Now I think I need a nap before I slouch toward the chair to begin again.
I'm not down about it, though, because I realized I had a new story, and I wrote an entire scene bringing in a character from an old story. He did not belong there but clearly I was lonely for him!
So maybe I haven't spent enough time thinking through the new story, called Red Shoes for a Beautiful Heart. I visit a few writing blogs, hoping someone will tell me either a) what the hell is wrong with me, b) the first line to the next scene, or c) something so profound and meaningful about writing and my new story in particular that a fire is lit under my ass and my fingers take off across the keyboard like startled blackbirds in flight.
Happily, I can report the winner is c. First I listened to several youtube videos about storytelling by Ira Glass and Scott Simon, made notes to myself about using vivid details and such; made a post-it note for the wall that said, "the story should have a point" (good to remember). Then I visited Writer Unboxed and read an article by Donald Maass about using fear.
Okay, the problem with using fear and putting characters in fearful situations is since I am living in the character's head, my stomach can spend months in knots, suffering along with; and since we are talking about internal conflict and internal fears, these are even worse. I mean, sure you can be afraid of a man with a gun jumping out of the alleyway, but really, what's worse- making your character face their deepest fears, make him see the worst in himself, and try to fix it, or the man with the gun? I'd take the gun in a New York minute.
Oh, wait! Hold the presses! Making a character face what he fears most about himself is not the same thing as making the writer face the worst in herself! This is fiction, damnit! Third fucking person! Yipee! Oh, God, that was exhausting. Now I think I need a nap before I slouch toward the chair to begin again.
March 8, 2011
One of my favorite characters
Murder at Black Dog Springs by Sarah Black
I really love the cover photo. But in my mind, the character on the cover isn't one of the two main characters. Ever had a character try to run away with the book? That happens to me when I fall in love with someone I'm writing about --in the case of this story, the secondary character Curtis Benally. A beautiful, tragic, complicated character. Anyway, this story has been out in print previously, but I revised it considerably and it's now available at the Kindle store as an ebook.
Here’s an excerpt:
Code Talker Logan Kee returns to Lukachukai Mountain in 1947, hoping to forget the horrors of war in the Pacific. But there is talk of uranium mining in Dinetah. When one of the mining executives is found shot to death on his land, Logan and his lover, Mike, a former Seabee, have to find the killer before the wrong man is accused of murder.
http://tinyurl.com/4verxua
Lukachukai Mountain, Navajo Reservation, April, 2008
CJ banged through the screen door of the hogan. “Hey, Grandpa Logan! Que pasa, man!”
I bolted out of the recliner, heart hammering in my chest. What the hell? What’s happening? When I saw who it was, I fell back in my chair, concentrated on breathing, willed my heart to continue beating just a little longer. If a man couldn’t take a nap in peace on Lukachukai Mountain, in one of the most remote spots in Dinetah… Don’t worry, old man. You can always sleep when you’re dead. I looked over at CJ. All I could see was his butt, sticking out the door to the fridge.
“Where’s Grandpa Mike? I need to tell you guys something.”
I looked at the other recliner. Empty. “Well, he’s not taking his nap. Did you see him at the loom?”
CJ shook his head. “I did hear hammering from up by the springs. He must be building something.”
“Most probably. Boy, put some coffee on for me, would you?”
“Sure, Grandpa.” CJ went over to the stove, lifted the tiny, battered aluminum percolator. “I need to buy you a Mr. Coffee next time I’m in town.”
“That pot works fine. You been going into Flag to see that girl?”
“Melody. Yeah, I have. I mean, I know what you said, but it’s not like we’re related.”
Only in ways you never need to know about, boy. “What did Mike say about it?”
“He said she looked just like her grandmother did when she was that age, and she acted just like her, too.”
“Hmmm.”
Mike opened the door to the hogan and came inside, sucking on the side of his thumb.
“What’s wrong? What did you do?”
“Hit it with the hammer.”
“Where are your glasses?”
“I don’t know. If I could see good enough to find my glasses, I wouldn’t need glasses, would I?”
“I’ve got them.” CJ brought the glasses to him, and Mike settled back in his recliner, set the glasses down on the little TV stand next to his chair.
“Thanks, kid.”
“They were in the dish drainer.”
“Really. Is that coffee?”
“Yes. Grandpas, I got something to tell you both. I wanted to wait until you were together.”
Oh, no. No, no, no.
Mike beat me to it. “You haven’t got Lindsey pregnant, have you?”
“Grandpa, it’s Melody. Lindsey was her grandmother. And no, we haven’t. I mean, you can buy condoms in Basha’s. I’m not a fool.”
“You can? Don’t you need a note from your mother or something?”
“I joined the Marine Corps. I’m going to basic as soon as I graduate in June.”
I felt a searing pain across my head. It lanced down through my right eye, and I wondered if this was how it felt when you were getting ready to have a stroke. “CJ, you don’t have to do this. You’ve got college money. You don’t have anything to prove…”
“You know why I have to go. It’s our legacy. You know that. It’s in our family to serve. I was named after my grandpas Curtis and Jay. You and Grandpa Mike practically raised me. You were a Code-Talker. So was Jay and so was my Grandpa Curtis. He won the Silver Star! I mean, that’s big. It’s a big deal.”
“I know, boy. I was there.”
“And we’re at war again, and now’s my chance. To bring honor to the family. To prove myself. To forge my character in the crucible of war.”
“To forge your… what the hell have you been reading?” Mike turned his head away. I thought he was trying to keep CJ from seeing the tears. “It’s not like you think, CJ. It’s not romantic. It’s… shit.” He pushed out of his chair, left the hogan, the screen door banging closed behind him, and I watched him through the window, heading up to Black Dog Springs.
A picture flashed into my mind, CNN footage of boys with resolute, dusty faces, weapons raised, climbing through the concrete rubble. Then I smelled something different, something from my memory, the curdling wet heat of Saipan, green rot and cordite and blood. “I don’t want your legacy to put you in the ground before you’ve had a chance to live, son. Curtis wouldn’t have wanted that for you. He would never have wanted that. Grandpa Mike and me, we’re…” I couldn’t say anything else. It felt like a hand was squeezing my throat shut, something tight squeezing around my heart. Not a good feeling at my age.
CJ squatted down next to my chair. “I’m a man now. You understand what I mean? I have to go out into the world, learn who I am. Learn what I’m made of. And maybe now it’s time you and Grandpa Mike told me what happened up at Black Dog Springs. Because that’s part of my legacy, too, isn’t it?”
“Have you already signed the papers?”
CJ nodded. “We’ll go to Iraq as soon as we finish infantry training.”
“I’ll tell you when you come home, then. Not before. You won’t understand otherwise.”
Gallup, New Mexico October, 1947
Mike looked like hell. He stepped down off the bus into the glaring afternoon sun, raised his hand to shield his eyes. The bus driver was unloading luggage, and Mike reached down into the pile and slung his battered green duffel bag over his shoulder. He must have lost twenty pounds since we came home. He looked like he’d been sick, gray smudges under his eyes, his cheekbones standing out like wings. Maybe he had that radiation sickness. No, it wasn’t that. When he got close enough, I smelled the booze.
Mike reached out, shook my hand, relief spreading with a smile over his face. “Hey, Logan. Man, you look great. I’m…” His smile faltered a bit. “It’s good to see you.”
“Good to see you, too.” I could hear the strain in my voice, the worry. I’d had a picture in my head since I’d got the letter, saying Mike wanted to come out to the reservation and stay for a bit. I remembered his face when we’d first met, filthy and grinning and the brownest eyes, old gold, like buckwheat honey. It had been night on the beachfront in Saipan, the second night of the invasion. I’d been up for thirty-six hours by then, reeling with thirst and exhaustion. My throat felt like it was coated with cordite, a headache pounding like a sledge behind my eyes. The radio never shut up, not for five minutes. Mike had stepped in front of me with a net full of water bottles and rations over his shoulder, an unlit cigarette in the corner of his grinning mouth. “Hey,” he’d said. “Look at you. You’re Navajo, right? You look like home.”
A lot of people noticed my Navajo face in a Marine green uniform, but Mike was the first Anglo who’d looked at me and smiled, his face lighting up. I’d thought about it a lot since I’d been home, Mike’s smile. He always looked like something warm and happy was sitting in his chest. I looked down into his face now, saw the lines of strain around his eyes, lines around his mouth. I pulled him close, wrapped my arm around his shoulders for a quick hug. He fit up against my chest the way he always had, like we were two halves of a broken coin. “Buddy, I was glad to hear from you. It’s been nine months! If it was anybody else, I would have written to say don’t come, because I’m living in a Marine surplus tent on this land I have next to Black Dog Springs. But I knew you wouldn’t mind roughing it.”
“You’re living in a tent?” Mike looked at me, eyes quizzical, and I pulled the duffel bag off his shoulder and slung it over my own. “It’s October already. Getting cold at night.”
“Yeah, it is. I was going to try and build a hogan before winter comes down hard. But then my old Marine Corps bud who just happens to be a Navy Seabee wants to come visit me. So I’m thinking, Seabees know how to live in tents and they can build anything! Maybe I can talk Mike into helping me chop down a few trees.” I lifted the duffel into the back of my truck, a beat up, powder blue ‘38 Chevy. “You okay, Mike? You don’t look so good.”
I really love the cover photo. But in my mind, the character on the cover isn't one of the two main characters. Ever had a character try to run away with the book? That happens to me when I fall in love with someone I'm writing about --in the case of this story, the secondary character Curtis Benally. A beautiful, tragic, complicated character. Anyway, this story has been out in print previously, but I revised it considerably and it's now available at the Kindle store as an ebook.
Here’s an excerpt:
Code Talker Logan Kee returns to Lukachukai Mountain in 1947, hoping to forget the horrors of war in the Pacific. But there is talk of uranium mining in Dinetah. When one of the mining executives is found shot to death on his land, Logan and his lover, Mike, a former Seabee, have to find the killer before the wrong man is accused of murder.
http://tinyurl.com/4verxua
Lukachukai Mountain, Navajo Reservation, April, 2008
CJ banged through the screen door of the hogan. “Hey, Grandpa Logan! Que pasa, man!”
I bolted out of the recliner, heart hammering in my chest. What the hell? What’s happening? When I saw who it was, I fell back in my chair, concentrated on breathing, willed my heart to continue beating just a little longer. If a man couldn’t take a nap in peace on Lukachukai Mountain, in one of the most remote spots in Dinetah… Don’t worry, old man. You can always sleep when you’re dead. I looked over at CJ. All I could see was his butt, sticking out the door to the fridge.
“Where’s Grandpa Mike? I need to tell you guys something.”
I looked at the other recliner. Empty. “Well, he’s not taking his nap. Did you see him at the loom?”
CJ shook his head. “I did hear hammering from up by the springs. He must be building something.”
“Most probably. Boy, put some coffee on for me, would you?”
“Sure, Grandpa.” CJ went over to the stove, lifted the tiny, battered aluminum percolator. “I need to buy you a Mr. Coffee next time I’m in town.”
“That pot works fine. You been going into Flag to see that girl?”
“Melody. Yeah, I have. I mean, I know what you said, but it’s not like we’re related.”
Only in ways you never need to know about, boy. “What did Mike say about it?”
“He said she looked just like her grandmother did when she was that age, and she acted just like her, too.”
“Hmmm.”
Mike opened the door to the hogan and came inside, sucking on the side of his thumb.
“What’s wrong? What did you do?”
“Hit it with the hammer.”
“Where are your glasses?”
“I don’t know. If I could see good enough to find my glasses, I wouldn’t need glasses, would I?”
“I’ve got them.” CJ brought the glasses to him, and Mike settled back in his recliner, set the glasses down on the little TV stand next to his chair.
“Thanks, kid.”
“They were in the dish drainer.”
“Really. Is that coffee?”
“Yes. Grandpas, I got something to tell you both. I wanted to wait until you were together.”
Oh, no. No, no, no.
Mike beat me to it. “You haven’t got Lindsey pregnant, have you?”
“Grandpa, it’s Melody. Lindsey was her grandmother. And no, we haven’t. I mean, you can buy condoms in Basha’s. I’m not a fool.”
“You can? Don’t you need a note from your mother or something?”
“I joined the Marine Corps. I’m going to basic as soon as I graduate in June.”
I felt a searing pain across my head. It lanced down through my right eye, and I wondered if this was how it felt when you were getting ready to have a stroke. “CJ, you don’t have to do this. You’ve got college money. You don’t have anything to prove…”
“You know why I have to go. It’s our legacy. You know that. It’s in our family to serve. I was named after my grandpas Curtis and Jay. You and Grandpa Mike practically raised me. You were a Code-Talker. So was Jay and so was my Grandpa Curtis. He won the Silver Star! I mean, that’s big. It’s a big deal.”
“I know, boy. I was there.”
“And we’re at war again, and now’s my chance. To bring honor to the family. To prove myself. To forge my character in the crucible of war.”
“To forge your… what the hell have you been reading?” Mike turned his head away. I thought he was trying to keep CJ from seeing the tears. “It’s not like you think, CJ. It’s not romantic. It’s… shit.” He pushed out of his chair, left the hogan, the screen door banging closed behind him, and I watched him through the window, heading up to Black Dog Springs.
A picture flashed into my mind, CNN footage of boys with resolute, dusty faces, weapons raised, climbing through the concrete rubble. Then I smelled something different, something from my memory, the curdling wet heat of Saipan, green rot and cordite and blood. “I don’t want your legacy to put you in the ground before you’ve had a chance to live, son. Curtis wouldn’t have wanted that for you. He would never have wanted that. Grandpa Mike and me, we’re…” I couldn’t say anything else. It felt like a hand was squeezing my throat shut, something tight squeezing around my heart. Not a good feeling at my age.
CJ squatted down next to my chair. “I’m a man now. You understand what I mean? I have to go out into the world, learn who I am. Learn what I’m made of. And maybe now it’s time you and Grandpa Mike told me what happened up at Black Dog Springs. Because that’s part of my legacy, too, isn’t it?”
“Have you already signed the papers?”
CJ nodded. “We’ll go to Iraq as soon as we finish infantry training.”
“I’ll tell you when you come home, then. Not before. You won’t understand otherwise.”
Gallup, New Mexico October, 1947
Mike looked like hell. He stepped down off the bus into the glaring afternoon sun, raised his hand to shield his eyes. The bus driver was unloading luggage, and Mike reached down into the pile and slung his battered green duffel bag over his shoulder. He must have lost twenty pounds since we came home. He looked like he’d been sick, gray smudges under his eyes, his cheekbones standing out like wings. Maybe he had that radiation sickness. No, it wasn’t that. When he got close enough, I smelled the booze.
Mike reached out, shook my hand, relief spreading with a smile over his face. “Hey, Logan. Man, you look great. I’m…” His smile faltered a bit. “It’s good to see you.”
“Good to see you, too.” I could hear the strain in my voice, the worry. I’d had a picture in my head since I’d got the letter, saying Mike wanted to come out to the reservation and stay for a bit. I remembered his face when we’d first met, filthy and grinning and the brownest eyes, old gold, like buckwheat honey. It had been night on the beachfront in Saipan, the second night of the invasion. I’d been up for thirty-six hours by then, reeling with thirst and exhaustion. My throat felt like it was coated with cordite, a headache pounding like a sledge behind my eyes. The radio never shut up, not for five minutes. Mike had stepped in front of me with a net full of water bottles and rations over his shoulder, an unlit cigarette in the corner of his grinning mouth. “Hey,” he’d said. “Look at you. You’re Navajo, right? You look like home.”
A lot of people noticed my Navajo face in a Marine green uniform, but Mike was the first Anglo who’d looked at me and smiled, his face lighting up. I’d thought about it a lot since I’d been home, Mike’s smile. He always looked like something warm and happy was sitting in his chest. I looked down into his face now, saw the lines of strain around his eyes, lines around his mouth. I pulled him close, wrapped my arm around his shoulders for a quick hug. He fit up against my chest the way he always had, like we were two halves of a broken coin. “Buddy, I was glad to hear from you. It’s been nine months! If it was anybody else, I would have written to say don’t come, because I’m living in a Marine surplus tent on this land I have next to Black Dog Springs. But I knew you wouldn’t mind roughing it.”
“You’re living in a tent?” Mike looked at me, eyes quizzical, and I pulled the duffel bag off his shoulder and slung it over my own. “It’s October already. Getting cold at night.”
“Yeah, it is. I was going to try and build a hogan before winter comes down hard. But then my old Marine Corps bud who just happens to be a Navy Seabee wants to come visit me. So I’m thinking, Seabees know how to live in tents and they can build anything! Maybe I can talk Mike into helping me chop down a few trees.” I lifted the duffel into the back of my truck, a beat up, powder blue ‘38 Chevy. “You okay, Mike? You don’t look so good.”
March 5, 2011
myfoodcounter- !! somebody shoot me
I've signed up at one of those online food counter dealies with the kid, in an effort to eat according to the new food pyramid (long story). I carefully added all food and exercise today. Both bar graphs and pie charts showed the same thing- 51% of my calories came from fat! If I continue down this path, I will gain 0.8 pounds this week! damn that pizza!
February 20, 2011
Idaho's gay scorecard
There was an article in the paper scoring states by human rights- something like- the ten nicest places to live- one of those. On a scale of 1-10, Idaho ranks -1 in gay rights. I can tell my work here is not done!
December 2, 2010
free Christmas story Virgin with Peaches
My free Christmas story, Virgin with Peaches, is available on GLBT Bookshelf- they have been so kind and supportive- check out the Christmas Cards!
http://bookworld.editme.com/
http://bookworld.editme.com/
November 5, 2010
The Writer's Life
“Oh, yeah, writing is easy. You just open up a vein and bleed onto the page.” I don’t remember who said that, but today, writing has not been a torture. In November, especially, we become so consumed by production, we force ourselves to move forward, something like slaves toting a barge upriver, against the current. (I’m at 7,603 words for Nov). It isn’t always like that, though.
Today, the story I’m writing is delightful. Characters are unfolding in my mind, and on the page, as I write, becoming more complex, more human and mysterious. I’m enjoying it so much. I’ve closed my eyes, imagined a fish market in Zanzibar (without a single reference to the smell), the airport at Dar es Salaam, and I can only say how delightful it is to be a writer. What a joy, to be able to imagine these worlds, to let the characters teach me what I came to the page to say. Just for a moment, in the middle of November, maybe we can pause and be delighted at what we are doing, at what it feels like to write, the tiny new worlds we’re creating out of our imagination. This is the writer’s life.
Today, the story I’m writing is delightful. Characters are unfolding in my mind, and on the page, as I write, becoming more complex, more human and mysterious. I’m enjoying it so much. I’ve closed my eyes, imagined a fish market in Zanzibar (without a single reference to the smell), the airport at Dar es Salaam, and I can only say how delightful it is to be a writer. What a joy, to be able to imagine these worlds, to let the characters teach me what I came to the page to say. Just for a moment, in the middle of November, maybe we can pause and be delighted at what we are doing, at what it feels like to write, the tiny new worlds we’re creating out of our imagination. This is the writer’s life.
October 30, 2010
First Day of my Early Retirement! Woo Hoo!
I forgot to turn off the alarm clock, of course, and so when it went off at 0530, I just lay in bed, thinking of all the exciting things I could do today. Have already written a flash and dragged a box full of art supplies out of the closet- the kitchen table is covered in tubes of watercolors and brushes and piles of lovely paper, all just begging to be turned into books.
Today is also Boo at the Zoo, and I will be taking my gigantic son, now 6'5" tall, off to the party with all the other kids. He is sleeping, I believe, with his pirate costume, and has been practicing 'aaaarr' and other pirate noises. Always a highlight for me, a trip to the zoo means we can walk through the rose gardens, and the Abraham Darby is in full bloom. I just stand in the middle of the bush and smell until my head's spinning.
My new Dreamspinner book is coming soon- Idaho Battlegrounds, with a cool cover of the heros in a pink bathtub painted by Paul Richmond. I'm really happy with the story. The main character, Grady Sullivan, loves old roses, and standing in the middle of the Abraham Darby is what made me think up this side of his character. The other character, Edward Clayton, is the cheesemaker! I think I put on five pound writing this story, since I had to start by learning how to make homemade ricotta cheese. Which is delicious, by the way, made with fresh lemon juice and raw milk.
Today is also Boo at the Zoo, and I will be taking my gigantic son, now 6'5" tall, off to the party with all the other kids. He is sleeping, I believe, with his pirate costume, and has been practicing 'aaaarr' and other pirate noises. Always a highlight for me, a trip to the zoo means we can walk through the rose gardens, and the Abraham Darby is in full bloom. I just stand in the middle of the bush and smell until my head's spinning.
My new Dreamspinner book is coming soon- Idaho Battlegrounds, with a cool cover of the heros in a pink bathtub painted by Paul Richmond. I'm really happy with the story. The main character, Grady Sullivan, loves old roses, and standing in the middle of the Abraham Darby is what made me think up this side of his character. The other character, Edward Clayton, is the cheesemaker! I think I put on five pound writing this story, since I had to start by learning how to make homemade ricotta cheese. Which is delicious, by the way, made with fresh lemon juice and raw milk.
August 22, 2010
Icarus Takes a Leap (flash fiction)
Icarus Takes a Leap
Feminine shrieks, and the slap of feminine feet in sandals, running away. Daedelus stuck his head out the window. “Icarus! Get down from there and cover it up, kid! Now!”
He sat back down and stirred a spoonful of honey into his hot wine. “I’m surrounded by idiots,” he told the young, dark-eyed slave. “My boss is teetering on the brink of psychotic paranoia. My nephew is a smarmy, smart-mouthed kid who thinks cleverness is an adequate substitute for hard work and experience. I’m stuck with him for an assistant.” His voice was bitter. He drained his cup and set it back on the marble table-top with a sharpish click. “But Icarus! Icarus is going to do me in.”
**
Icarus spread his legs on top of the rock wall to keep his balance, one hand stroking his ding-dong and the other waving at likely girls. Oh, their cheeks turned so red! Lashes fluttered like butterflies! But they all took a good, long look before they darted away, linen draperies flying. Yeah, baby, he was the man. He was hung like the crazy king’s bull and he lived to share his bounty with all the pretty little girls of Crete.
He shaded his eyes. Who was that coming now? Oh, Zeus. He knew who that was, and his mighty bull gave a lurch and a throb of happiness. Here was the Princess, hair as shiny black as the moon on the Mediterranean, big, dark eyes, indigo linen like spider webs, sheer and fine. She was coming this way on purpose, carefully putting her tiny feet from rock to rock. They all knew him. They knew where he parked. She wanted him. He gave his man a couple of extra strokes for luck.
Locked in the Tower
“Icarus, you…you idiot! If this window was a little bigger I’d toss you out on your head and watch you…” Daedelus turned away, ready to bite his tongue in two, ready to strangle his first-born to death. No one understood what it was like to be a single parent, to try and have a career with a weirdo son hanging around his neck like a millstone. Why? Why had he been cursed like this, destined to waste his brilliance on crazy kings, saddled with a son as fruity as… He threw up his hands and went for the wine.
**
Icarus found the wings when they were nearly finished. “Dad, where’s my pair?”
Daedelus looked shifty. “Well, son, naturally I wanted to test them for safety before I made yours. I’m making you a pair, don’t worry.”
Icarus wasn’t paying attention. He was dreaming, imagining the possibilities if he took to the sky in a pair of wings. Whole villages, whole countries, the world, treated to the view of his magnificent man! They would think he was a god!
Daedelus reached for his cup of hot wine, eyes narrowed. “Start collecting feathers, Icarus.”
Feminine shrieks, and the slap of feminine feet in sandals, running away. Daedelus stuck his head out the window. “Icarus! Get down from there and cover it up, kid! Now!”
He sat back down and stirred a spoonful of honey into his hot wine. “I’m surrounded by idiots,” he told the young, dark-eyed slave. “My boss is teetering on the brink of psychotic paranoia. My nephew is a smarmy, smart-mouthed kid who thinks cleverness is an adequate substitute for hard work and experience. I’m stuck with him for an assistant.” His voice was bitter. He drained his cup and set it back on the marble table-top with a sharpish click. “But Icarus! Icarus is going to do me in.”
**
Icarus spread his legs on top of the rock wall to keep his balance, one hand stroking his ding-dong and the other waving at likely girls. Oh, their cheeks turned so red! Lashes fluttered like butterflies! But they all took a good, long look before they darted away, linen draperies flying. Yeah, baby, he was the man. He was hung like the crazy king’s bull and he lived to share his bounty with all the pretty little girls of Crete.
He shaded his eyes. Who was that coming now? Oh, Zeus. He knew who that was, and his mighty bull gave a lurch and a throb of happiness. Here was the Princess, hair as shiny black as the moon on the Mediterranean, big, dark eyes, indigo linen like spider webs, sheer and fine. She was coming this way on purpose, carefully putting her tiny feet from rock to rock. They all knew him. They knew where he parked. She wanted him. He gave his man a couple of extra strokes for luck.
Locked in the Tower
“Icarus, you…you idiot! If this window was a little bigger I’d toss you out on your head and watch you…” Daedelus turned away, ready to bite his tongue in two, ready to strangle his first-born to death. No one understood what it was like to be a single parent, to try and have a career with a weirdo son hanging around his neck like a millstone. Why? Why had he been cursed like this, destined to waste his brilliance on crazy kings, saddled with a son as fruity as… He threw up his hands and went for the wine.
**
Icarus found the wings when they were nearly finished. “Dad, where’s my pair?”
Daedelus looked shifty. “Well, son, naturally I wanted to test them for safety before I made yours. I’m making you a pair, don’t worry.”
Icarus wasn’t paying attention. He was dreaming, imagining the possibilities if he took to the sky in a pair of wings. Whole villages, whole countries, the world, treated to the view of his magnificent man! They would think he was a god!
Daedelus reached for his cup of hot wine, eyes narrowed. “Start collecting feathers, Icarus.”
August 21, 2010
Book Report August 2010
Book Report, August 2010
I’ve had a couple of exciting trips to the bookstore the last few weeks. I just finished a new story for Dreamspinner and I wanted to clear my head/stuff my head before starting anything new.
Empire of the Summer Moon, by S.C. Gwynne, is the story of Quanah Parker and the Comanche in Texas. Very exciting and brutal story about the American West, one of my favorite non-fiction reading topics. Gorgeous writing. I haven’t read any of this author’s books before, but I really enjoyed the style of storytelling. In telling the story of the Comanche and Quanah, from the height of their power to the days on the reservation, he tries to give both the Comanche and the Texan point of view. I think it would have been exciting to just tell the story from the Comanche pov, but the man does still have to live in Texas. Where people have very long memories. My family is from Texas, and when I told my mom I was moving to the Navajo reservation to work, she said, ‘don’t go live with the Comanche. You can’t imagine what those people did in Texas.”
He has an epigram from Cormac McCarthy that I really like: The desert wind would salt their ruins and there would be nothing, no ghost or scribe, to tell any pilgrim in his passing how it was that people had lived in this place and in this place had died.
When I leave Mr. Parker and the Comanche in Oklahoma, I have some collections of stories to read- two Boise Boys: Memory Wall by Anthony Doerr, and Letting Loose the Hounds, by Brady Udall. Also John Grisham’s Ford County Stories and Stephen O’Connor’s Here Comes Another Lesson. I’m very fond of short forms and have been really looking forward to these books.
And just to keep up in what is happening in this century, war-wise, I have The Good Soldier by David Finkel and Every Man in the Village is a Liar, by Megan Stack. I wonder how much has changed, war-wise, since Quanah Parker rode with the Quahadi?
My novella Anagama Fires has recently been published by Dreamspinner Press. I love this story. The main characters are both potters, so I got to write lots of cool scenes with clay and raku kilns and glaze. And they are in love again, at the end, which is all I hope for in life, my dears, that and lots of books.
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/stor...
I’ve had a couple of exciting trips to the bookstore the last few weeks. I just finished a new story for Dreamspinner and I wanted to clear my head/stuff my head before starting anything new.
Empire of the Summer Moon, by S.C. Gwynne, is the story of Quanah Parker and the Comanche in Texas. Very exciting and brutal story about the American West, one of my favorite non-fiction reading topics. Gorgeous writing. I haven’t read any of this author’s books before, but I really enjoyed the style of storytelling. In telling the story of the Comanche and Quanah, from the height of their power to the days on the reservation, he tries to give both the Comanche and the Texan point of view. I think it would have been exciting to just tell the story from the Comanche pov, but the man does still have to live in Texas. Where people have very long memories. My family is from Texas, and when I told my mom I was moving to the Navajo reservation to work, she said, ‘don’t go live with the Comanche. You can’t imagine what those people did in Texas.”
He has an epigram from Cormac McCarthy that I really like: The desert wind would salt their ruins and there would be nothing, no ghost or scribe, to tell any pilgrim in his passing how it was that people had lived in this place and in this place had died.
When I leave Mr. Parker and the Comanche in Oklahoma, I have some collections of stories to read- two Boise Boys: Memory Wall by Anthony Doerr, and Letting Loose the Hounds, by Brady Udall. Also John Grisham’s Ford County Stories and Stephen O’Connor’s Here Comes Another Lesson. I’m very fond of short forms and have been really looking forward to these books.
And just to keep up in what is happening in this century, war-wise, I have The Good Soldier by David Finkel and Every Man in the Village is a Liar, by Megan Stack. I wonder how much has changed, war-wise, since Quanah Parker rode with the Quahadi?
My novella Anagama Fires has recently been published by Dreamspinner Press. I love this story. The main characters are both potters, so I got to write lots of cool scenes with clay and raku kilns and glaze. And they are in love again, at the end, which is all I hope for in life, my dears, that and lots of books.
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/stor...
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