Remembering Writing My First Book

This morning I carried my coffee outside and sat down in the
sun. My phone was beeping and chirping as people emailed with news that ranged
from good to who cares to junk mail, but I wasn’t looking. Somewhere in the
distance someone was hammering on a rooftop and blasting Smashing Pumpkins.
Siamese Dreams. Brought back some good memories of writing my very first
material. Those were good times.

I’d broken my right hand, my dominant one, and I was out as far as the tattoo shop was concerned. In a lucky coincidence, my old pal Tranny Steve moved back to town. Steve was a violent punk psycho who sometimes wore women’s clothes, but he also grew weed. He moved into the giant crappy house I was living in by myself (no one wanted to live in North Portland in those days) and suddenly my money problems were over. All I had to do was never go in the basement. I was always a big reader and right then I was on a sci fi bender. Somehow I wound up with a super primitive computer and one morning after several bong hits I was off. Smashing Pumpkins, dialed up to face-melting, was the soundtrack.

That book was called Miracles of Altitude, about some grifters from Detroit who encounter runaway lab experiments. When I was done I showed it to three people. Two of them liked it. I showed it to my older brother who slyly suggested I commit suicide for being so insane as to think I could write with anything but crayons. In the end I lost the entire thing before I sent it anywhere else. But I learned from that book. Writing is fun. Its relaxing. Peaceful. And best of all, after writing that first book I enjoyed reading more. I didn’t know why at the time, but now I do. I could sense some of the craft behind it all, and that heightened my appreciation. A couple dozen short stories, seven published books, four television pilots (sold but never made as is the industry standard) scripts contributions and paid doctorings and even a few ghostwriter gigs later I still type without using the last two fingers on my right hand. I just noticed. I had to leave the emergency room cast on for six weeks (getting a real one was out of my price range) and they were taped together.

Tranny Steve liked that first book. A hard scumbag with a fight on his hands was his kind of yarn. Without that guy I’d have been a one-handed homeless guy, so it was good on good that he enjoyed it. That psycho was the only family I had right then. I have so many good stories about that cool dude. One time a whole bunch of us were driving back from the coast and we stopped by this farm to see these biker dorks Steve knew. They handed him a trash bag full of nitrous and after one giant lungful Steve faceplanted into their bonfire. Popped right up and continued with his story, uninjured. He never believed it even happened. Tranny Steve later disappeared while on vacation in Mexico. Tough guy, so I doubt he’s dead. Maybe I’ll dedicate my next book to him. Then again maybe not. We never knew his last name.

Here’s a ditty for ya-https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q-KE9lvU810