Dismissed, Rejected, Moving On...

The Oxford English Dictionary defines "rejection" as "the dismissing or refusing of a proposal, idea, etc." To me, lately, there have been two kinds of rejection. The first came from the top literary agent at the top New York literary agency. It was a form letter in response to my sending a proposal for my new novel (not a Thomas O'Shea story). He explained that he receives 300 queries daily, and for some reason, mine did not grab his attention. Understood. I was confident he would not be interested, but it was worth a try.

He was one of twenty queries I sent out. He is the only one to respond, so I give him credit, even if the rejection was a form letter. The other queries did not even generate a form letter. They did not generate anything. And they were sent out in OCTOBER. I was simply ignored, like a fly that doesn't buzz. 

The other kind of rejection is self-rejection. My first two novels in the Thomas O'Shea series were published and I am proud of them. The third in the series is completed and in the hands of my publisher with their promise to publish it early this year. In the meantime, I've been working on the fourth novel in the O'Shea series. But I wasn't happy with it. I was forcing it. I was not enjoying writing it. And I had fifteen chapters completed that I did not like. So I "self-rejected" and deleted all but the first chapter after wrestling with various alternative story lines. And got back to work. Today, I finished the new second chapter and I am on my way. It is a relief, believe me.

If you're a writer, you know how one has to develop a thick skin to protect oneself from cold, heartless, form letter rejections. Or no response at all. And you have to be tough with yourself, too. Still, I find encouragement from this great writer.

This manuscript of yours that has just come back from another editor is a precious package. Don’t consider it rejected. Consider that you’ve addressed it ‘to the editor who can appreciate my work’ and it has simply come back stamped ‘Not at this address’. Just keep looking for the right address. – Barbara Kingsolver

Lily the Brave, Sorta

Our rescue dog, nearly three years old now and weighing sixty pounds, is mostly pit bull with some terrier thrown in. She is sweet-natured, intelligent, playful. She is also willful, having learned all basic commands that she follows. When it suits her.

Sometime people acquire pit bulls for the wrong reasons. You know what they are. We acquired Lily to give her a good home and to provide us with company. Every day, she makes us laugh at least once. Yet, despite the fact that is the most passive dog who has ever owned us, her breed carries that reputation.

Last night during a storm my long-suffering wife heard a banging just outside our bedroom window. "It's something alive," she said.

So I got dressed, picked up a flashlight, and went forth to confront the source of the banging. Since we live at the edge of the woods and at the base of a small mountain, a wide range of "alive" things could have been the source of the banging. Raccoon, fox, bear, and yeti all came to mind. So I asked Lily to join me as backup as we went out the back door and around the house in the wind and the rain and the dark.

I turned around once to see if Lily had my back in case I needed protection. She was not there. I called and she appeared, or least, her head appeared at the corner of the house, so I proceeded and found the source of the thumping. A small access door under the crawlspace was loose. I secured it and turned around. Lily was not to be seen.

But she was nearby. On the back porch, wagging her tail. Lily now has a middle name. It is "Liver."

Devastated

I've always believed words mean things, and "devastated" has been misused a good bit lately. For example, I know of smart people who said they were  "devastated" by the death of Princess Leia, and "devastated" some more when her mum, Debbie Reynolds, died the next day. Now, those deaths are sad, but, really, how can one be "devastated" by the death of someone who, basically, made movies? The word means, according to the Oxford English Dictionary, "severe and overwhelming (my italics) shock or grief." 

I thought Princess Leia was cool, but she was fictional, created for entertainment purposes. Same for her mother's roles. It was sad that there was a history of mental illness and substance abuse, truly. But for someone who didn't even know these people to be "devastated" when they died? It baffles me. Time to move on, I think.

Recently, my favorite college football team, the Iowa Hawkeyes, were demolished in the Outback Bowl by Florida's Gators. The final score was 30-3. When the game was over and I had clicked off the TV, I just sat there. My long-suffering wife took one look at me and asked, "Are you okay?"

"No," I said. "Devastated."

Photo cred: Chris O'Meara AP Photo

Moving Right Along

Recently, I took my 12-years-old Honda Accord to the dealer to have a dead headlight and a failed brake light replaced.  The technician said it would take about an hour, so I just turned over the key, and retired to the customer waiting area, which had comfy sofas and chairs and a big screen TV.  I took with me some writing materials because I wanted to work on a few details for my fourth Thomas O'Shea novel, Of Mists and Murders, details I hadn't ironed out yet, in my iron head.

An older woman soon joined me, asked if I would care if she turned on the TV.  I was fine with that.  The lady, who looked like an octogenarian Hobbit, settled into a sofa and began watching "The People's Court," a show I had never seen before.  It was distracting, but I worked hard to ignore the peculiar people on the tube.  What was even more distracting was that the local advertisers for the show looked like twenty-something blondes with Barbie figures enhanced by implants.  And they were advertising for personal injury local lawyers.  Every single ad had the same kind of woman, whose feet never get wet in the shower, promoting one lawyer or another who really, truly, cared about me.

The aging Hobbit had zoned out, staring at the screen, mouth slightly open, nearly catatonic, taking it all in.  I fought off my tendency to be judgemental, ignoring the court cases, sneaking a peak at the commercials.  If I ever need a personal injury lawyer....

GOOD NEWS ALERT! I now have my very own website! From now on, you can catch my blogs and lots of other information about my work, and me a little, at www.johncarenenwrites.com.

For that, I am entirely grateful to my Book Concierge, Rowe Carenen, and David Garrison, genius website guru.  Come see!

The Bison Codicil

“Codicil: an addition or supplement that explains, modifies, or revokes a will or part of one” (Oxford English Dictionary).  Now, why would I start a blog with a definition?  Hang tight, dear reader, and I will explain.  Some of you know that my long-suffering wife and I took a little road trip in September.  It turned out to include 20 states, 4 time zones, 5,000 miles, and a variety of experiences.  Overwhelmingly good ones.  However, there was an exception.

The exception took place one evening as we drove back from a day at Yellowstone National Park.  It had been fun bumping obnoxious tourists into the hot springs just to hear them scream, encouraging teenagers to throw rocks at bears to get their attention for a better photo, and telling children that the bighorn sheep liked to be petted.  It was dark out, and we were slowly heading for our cabin when, quite suddenly, an enormous mass came into view directly in front of us in the road.  It was a bull American Bison and I was looking upat his backside.  My catlike reflexes had us swerving quickly around the land mass and back on the road, a good thing because on one side of the road was a sheer rock wall and the other side was an abyss.

I could not believe we had missed the bison.  If we had struck him, all 2,000-plus pounds would have ended up in our laps, thrashing about, swinging his horned head and hooves.  I am confident that would have left a mark.  Once we realized we weren’t dead, a kind of giddy relief came over us from the near-death experience.  I talked to a Park Ranger the next dead and he said bison occasionally get struck by cars at night and it usually turned out badly for the people in the cars.  I wondered why I didn’t see the big buffalo until the last moment, and the Park Ranger went on to say that the hide of the American Bison absorbs light, rather than reflects it.  Oh, and coming up behind the impediment meant we didn’t have any eyes or horns to reflect illumination from our headlights.  Good to know.

Back to the codicil.  When we realized we weren’t dead, but could have been, we also realized that parts of our last will and testament were incomplete.  We do have a will, but we suddenly realized it was not specific enough, and that for our two daughters’ sakes, we needed to be clearer.  So we have set ourselves to the task of defining which daughter gets what, after consultation, so when we move on to the true country, there won’t be any confusion about our villa in the south of France, our offshore accounts in the Bahamas, or the Lear jet.

We have peace of mind now about our assets, and, in a way, we can be grateful to the assets of the bull American Bison for helping us focus.  The codicil attached to our will shall be known, officially, as “The American Bull Bison Codicil”.

Have Yourself an O'Shea Christmas

Now that Thanksgiving Day is past, and so is Black Friday and Cyber Monday, you will continue to be deluged with ads on TV and radio extolling all the “perfect Christmas gifts” for your loved ones.  Everything is “that perfect gift.”  For example, a six-pack of Tidy Bowl is perfect, and so is a new Lexus. Diamonds, dog beds, electric toothbrushes, ear wax remover, exercise equipment, Omaha meat,and Michael Jordan underwear all seem to qualify as that “perfect” gift.

Now, to be transparent, I am going to make a suggestion for a nice gift for Christmas; really a stocking stuffer kind of gift, not guaranteed to make your significant other fall in love with you or simply smother you with kisses. If you have someone you care about who is a person who reads lots of books, I suggest two.  Both of them were written by me, and are the first two in a series about Thomas O’Shea and his adventures.  (The third in the series is done and due to come out in early 2017, and I’m working on the fourth.)  Their titles are Signs of Struggle  and A Far Gone Night.  They combine mystery, intrigue, romance, and homicide with humor in a small town in northeastern Iowa. Really.  You’ll like them, and your friends and family will, too.  You can purchase them on Amazon, hard copy or e-book.

Whether you purchase these books or not, I hope you have a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. But if you do buy the books, you won’t be sorry.  Way better than a pair of red and green boxers, or a Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer car freshner. Seriously.

That which we call a rose...

I offer a free service to friends and acquaintances.  It is this: I offer to name their babies for them.  So far, no takers, even though some of my offerings were as follows:For girls: Chalice Hulga, Blanche Tiffany, and Maude Ivy. For boys: Oscar Dudley, Zeno Horace, and Manly Francis. I've always been fascinated by names, whether it be people, book titles, countries, or anything else with a name.  Even medicines, like FloNaze.

So when my long-suffering wife and I were out early on our big road trip in September, I was impressed by two towns in Mississippi through which we passed.  One was named Bovina and the other was Chunky.  I am not making this up.  Being one who enjoys sports, I ruminated over what the schools' teams might be called.  I thought about the Bovina Bulldogs, but a former colleague of mine said that would be cross-species and wouldn't work.  I thought and thought about it.  Finally, I came up with the Bovina Buttercups which, I think, honored the bovine in all of us.  The town named Chunky provided a little more room and, thus, required less thought, which always appeals to me.  "Chunky Chubbies?" Nope on that one.  I would hate to hurt the feelings of any snowflakes in that school.  "Chunky Chickens" was a nonstarter.  I finally turned to the "Chunky Cherubs" which would not strike fear in the hearts of their opponents on the football field, but would certainly lull them into a false sense of superiority.

We finally crossed the Mississippi River at Vicksburg and made our way to a lunch date with friends in the Natchitoches, Louisiana.  Their public high school calls itself the "Chiefs" in honor of the Natchitoches Indians indigenous to the area.  I'd prefer they call themselves the "Natchitoches Neanderthals," or "Natchitoches Knuckledraggers."  Much more intimidating than "Chiefs."  Maybe if they called themselves the Neanderthals, they'd be having a better year, but nobody asked me.

Agent Unawares (For Now)

For all practical purposes, I have finished the "big" novel I've been writing to you all about.  Thirty-eight chapters ast it turns out, thoroughly reviewed, critiqued, and edited by my stellar book concierge, and studied by my writers group, "The Write Minds." I enjoyed writing the book, enjoyed the several revisions, enjoyed the outcome of the story that has redemption in it for a very troubled protagonist. Now the hard part sets in, the "corrosive self doubt" that I wrote about earlier that all writers feel.  It isn't any good.  It might be good but no one will want it.  Is it the best I can do?  Did I waste my time?  What will my 6th grade teacher at Hawthorne Elementary School in Clinton, Iowa think of it?

Something even harder begins now, and that - finding an agent.  I published my first two novels, and the third to come, without an agent.  So, why do I need an agent for this book?  Because there is a whole business side of publishing that I know nothing about and that my current publisher does not pursue.  How to push the book.  How to get rave reviews.  How to boost sales.  How to expand author's rights into foreign sales, getting into big bookstores, even movies.  How to, I tremble to mention this, how to make some money at my craft.

I have writer friends who have written wonderful novels and can't get published.  I have writer friends who got published but have made less than $500 in royalties over two or three years.  I have writer friends who despair and give up, but I'm not doing that.  I wrote a good book.  I hope to find an excellent agent who will boost my career.

I will keep you posted, dear readers.

The Day Old Faithful Wasn't

On a recent road trip that found us in Yellowstone Park, Wyoming, my long-suffering wife LIsa and I were sitting on benches with hundreds of people from all over the world, waiting for a geyser to erupt. The geyser was "Old Faithful," so named because it goes off regularly, day after day, year after year.  The Park Rangers set up a bulletin board that tells you when the next eruption will occur.  Typically, Old Faithful spouts off every 90 minutes, more or less. The "more or less" part is ten minutes either side. So there we were, waiting. Patiently waiting.  Idly waiting.  Waiting in anticipation.  Then, as the time drew near, there was a faint rumbling and finally the eruption, which did not draw gasps and shouts from the bystanders.  It was, in a word, "Underwhelming." No big deal. A man near me said, "I came all the way from Finland to see that?"  It wasn't much, for sure.

Everyone grumbled or laughed and the group split up and drifted off into different directions to be mangled by a bear or trod under by a bull bison, or to buy souvenirs.  Lisa and I headed for the nearby Visitors' Center to be educated at various displays telling us we were standing on a volcano that could erupt horrifically any time.  While Lisa was learning things at various displays, I noted that the Ranger Station had posted the time for the next eruption, which by that time, was close.  The time came and went.  The "more or less" ten minutes passed, and then some more.  Old Faithful was late.  The crowds waiting for the next eruption grew and grew.  I watched from the vantage point of the Ranger Station at the Visitors' Center.

Then it happened.  A distant rumbling followed by an eruption of the first magnitude as the geyser shot nearly 200 feet into the air and continued to do so for 10 minutes, thrusting thousands of gallons of water into the sky.  When Old Faithful stopped, there was applause and satisfied people moving on.  I don't know where Old Faithful was hanging out when it should have been performing, and I guess we'll never know.  Let's just say it was worth waiting around for the real thing.

Hope the guy from Finland saw it.

Taking a Page from Stephen King

Some famous author once said that when a writer finishes writing their novel, a sort of depression sets in, not unlike the postpartum blues women suffer from right after having a baby. I can't relate to postpartum depression, nor can I say rightly that I get down after completing the last chapter of a novel.  you see, I just finished the last chapter to my work, a 97,000-word "upmarket commercial" effort.  And I did not get depressed.  What I wanted to do was immediately start revising, so I did, looking specifically for two of my blind spots - passive voice and "echo," a term we writers use to describe using the same important word twice within close proximity of each other.  That proximity blind spot can be annoying, a speed bump interfering with the reader's flow and proximity to a smooth narrative.

So I did that, weeding out my blind spots.  What's next, you may ask?

When Stephen King finishes a novel, he sets it aside for a month or more and does something else, such as going for long walks or watching Boston Red Sox games, or reading what other writers are publishing.

My urge was to get back to working on my fourth Thomas O'Shea novel, since the first two are published (Signs of Struggle 2012 and A Far Gone Night 2014) and a third (The Face on the Other Side) is scheduled for an early 2017 release.  So I plan to get after number four in the series, Of Mists and Murders.

I am a professional writer, so I have a compulsion to write, and I am itching to produce that next O'Shea novel, and it nags at me.  But first, I am going to follow King's example and take some time off, starting with a long road trip with my bride, watching college football on TV (especially my Iowa Hawkeyes), and enjoying the changing of the seasons leading into my favorite month - October.

I will, however, keep a notebook in close proximity at all times, just in case I need to jot down a piece of dialogue that comes to mind, a vivid setting, or a conflict among my characters I had not thought of previously.

So, no more blogs for a while, but please look to hear from me and my writer's journey when the leaves turn to gold and orange and red.

A Writer's Wednesday

In my previous offering, I wrote about what it's like, a little, as a full time writer. I also alluded to the fact that I was about to write the final chapter of my most recent novel, which would have been Chapter 35. Guess what? Well, I did finish the novel last night, but it was Chapter 37. Things happened that I didn't expect, including a blizzard and a puppy and a couple of scenes in a pub. If you're a writer, you know how that happens. If you're not, let me try to explain. People say, "How in the world can something can happen in a story you, the author, are writing, and how can you be surprised? Aren't you in charge? This doesn't make any sense!"

They're right and wrong. Yes, I am the writer and I am in charge, and responsible for, what I write. But no, I'm not surprised when something happens I didn't plan on happening. How does that happen? Well, if I'm writing regularly, and I'm talking about several pages or even a full chapter, then the story sort of writes itself, in a sense because the story is happening inside my head, and things can intrude - scenes, dialogue, action - that I didn't plan. I do not outline. I do not write the last chapter first. I don't even know how the novel is going to wind up when I start. In this case, I did know that there would be redemption at the end, but that was it. How was that going to happen? Don't ask me. I can't answer the question.

So, how does it feel to have finished? It's good and bad. It's good because I've accomplished what I set out to do. It's bad because it's over, the relationships I have with the characters and the story. What's next? I'll set it aside for a while, several weeks maybe (Stephen King sets his aside for three months), but I'll still be thinking what I'm going to do to make it better. I'll get ideas, I'll jot notes, I'll answer questions that should have been answered in the book (why does that guy bite people instead of say hello?) and so forth.

In the meantime, I am going back to Of Mists And Murders, #4 in the Thomas O'Shea series set in fictitious Rockbluff, Iowa, which is what I was working on when the idea for this other novel shoved its way into my schedule. In other words, when I finish writing something, I write something else. Grand, isn't it?

Tomorrow may be Hell

I mentioned in an earlier blog that I was going to write series of postings about my work as a writer.  I have published the first two novels in the Thomas O'Shea series with #3 to published, I'm told, in December.  I was working on #4 when I felt I was a bit stale, and besides, there was an idea for another novel, a different kind of novel, that my imagination thrust upon me. So I wrote it.  I don't like the working title, but I must say I am pleased with the novel.  It's in the genre called "upmarket fiction" which is supposed to be a combination of literary fiction and commercial fiction.  It's supposed to be 35 chapters.  I have written 34.  But I don't know how to finish the book.  So, I have gone back and revised, hoping to unlock the key to that elusive last chapter.

Nevertheless, the last three days have been very good writing days as I have struggled to make chapters better.  Neil Gaiman said, "Tomorrow may be hell, but today was a good writing day, and on the good writing days nothing else matters."

The last three days have been good writing days.  However, I must say that other things matter, so there.

After several hours writing and revising today, my brain is tired and I plan to take a nap, enjoy dinner with my bride, play with my dog, Lily, winner for the second consecutive year as "Best In The Universe" at the Intergalactic Dog Show on Pluto.  Maybe watch some episodes of "Hell on Wheels" on Netflix.  I recommend the gritty series about building the transcontinental railroad, a project I remember well, my 4th grade class taking a field trip to see the progress out of Council Bluffs, Iowa.

Writing is hard, but I love it.  More later on when and if I can write Chapter 35.

Thomas O'Shea for President

Don't like Donald Trump? Ted Cruz? Hillary? Bernie? Well, I can tell you someone you will like, and his name is Thomas O'Shea, and he's the tough but tender, wise-cracking protagonist in my first two novels in the series, and you WILL like him.  But you can't like him if you don't read about him.  And I have good news.  My publisher, Neverland Publishing, has told me that the third in the series, The Face on the Other Side, will be published in December.  But why wait for #3 if you haven't read the first two?  So, let me encourage you to pick up the first, Signs of Struggle.  I am confident you'll enjoy it and then you will want to read the second, A Far Gone Night.  I believe you'll enjoy it as well and then you'll be ready for #3 when the weather grows colder.

The first two are available on Amazon.  If you live in the beautiful Upstate of South Carolina, you may find autographed copies in My Sister's Store, As the Page Turns, Fiction Addiction, and The Cafe at Williams Hardware.

These novels will make outstanding summer reading choices for you and your friends. A pleasant and entertaining diversion from politics, violence, and heat waves.  Maybe even therapeutic.

Also, I have been informed by my Book Concierge that I haven't been blogging much lately.  True, I've been working on Thomas O'Shea #4 and another novel, completely different.  What I'd like to do, besides send out puns and corny jokes from time to time, is send send out an occasional blog about the joys and frustrations of being a full time writer.  My hope is that those blogs will be interesting, along with other blogs on some unrelated topic.  Maybe snakes.

So, for now, go ahead and order the O'Shea books, stay inside by an A/C vent, put your feet up, and enjoy.

That's it for now, but I promise there'll be more later.

Writing Wednesday Writer's Plug

Now that Memorial Day is over and June is here, many of you are planning vacations - to the beach, to the mountains, to the back yard.  When that happens, a grand old American tradition is to get one's hands on novels with page-turning plots, colorful characters, humor, and maybe even a bit of mystery and action.  Ideally, romance is sprinkled into the mix with healthy portions. I would like to make two recommendations, knowing that these novels include all of the above ingredients for a good read.  I know this because I wrote them, and here they are:  Signs of Struggle in which the protagonist, Thomas O'Shea, who has lost his family in a tragic car accident, comes upon a beautiful woman, bloody and screaming, running down a country road.  He considers not helping; after all, he has his own issues, but his heroic side wins out, one thing leads to another, and he discovers an enormous plot to sell tens of millions of dollars' worth of prime Iowa farmland.  He starts snooping into the situation and then people try to discourage him.  Attempts are made on his life, but O'She is a tough guy with nothing to lose as he struggles with the loss of his family, drinking, women, and his guilt for precipitating so much violence in the little town where he now lives.  Ron Rash (Serena, The World Made Straight, Above the Waterfall, The Cove) says "Signs of Struggle is both a gripping murder mystery and a compelling study of one man's recovery from tragedy.  John Carenen is a gifted writer and his novel is an impressive debut."

My second recommendation is the sequel to Signs of Struggle and is entitled A Far Gone Night.  Suffering from insomnia, O'Shea goes for a late-night stroll and finds himself pausing on a bridge over the river that runs through the peaceful Iowa town of Rockbluff.  When he glances downstream, he sees the body of a dead girl. Teaming up with his friends Lunatic Mooning and Clancy Dominquez, an old buddy from Navy SEAL days, the men set out to bring justice to the dead girl, a quest that takes them to the Chalaka Reservation in Minnesota, seedy businesses adjacent to the Chalaka Casino, and straight into the world of organized crime.  Quirky characters fro my first novel, a fast-paced story, and laugh-out-loud moments continue to enliven the complex world of Thomas O'Shea.  Wendy Tyson (Killer Image, Deadly Asset, Dying Brand, A Muddied Murder) says, "Carenen has done it again.  Beautifully written ... A Far Gone Night doesn't disappoint."

So, whether you are headed for the beach or just enjoying your front porch, I am confident these two novels (the third in the series is at the publisher) will bring pleasure to your summer reading.  You can find them at Amazon books, of course.  If  you I've in the South Carolina Upstate, where I live, you can pick up both novels at both Fiction Addiction and Joe's Place in Greenville and My Sister's Store in Travelers Rest.  Also in "TR" as we call it, the novels are available at As the Page Turns (Southern Writers section) and The Cafe at Williams Hardware.  Just ask if you can't find them.  They're there.

So, I hope you'll pick up these novels, enjoy them, and say "I'm Facebook friends with this author!"

Blogging, Snake-style

I hate snakes.  I don't even like the useful ones, like blacksnakes, who supposedly eat rodents, copperheads (folklore, I believe), and ATF employees because the main purpose for all snakes is this - scare the bejeezus out of me the instant I see one.  I don't want to see one, but I am ever vigilant that there is a snake somewhere just waiting to jump out at me and say, "Aha!" at which point, as soon as my heart starts beating again, I go get a shovel, hoe, or gatling gun to KILL IT.  But by then it is usually gone, blogging to other snakes about what fun it was to make me wet my pants.  I hate snakes. So, when my long-suffering wife, Lisa, came in the house to tell me there was a snake in her little vegetable garden (one of only two manmade creations visible from outer space the other being The Great Wall of China), I asked, "Do you want me to kill it?" she replied, "No, I want you help me to free it."

"Free it?"

A simple, non-assuming, modest rat snake, about 3-4 feet long, had gotten itself entangled in a roll of mesh Lisa uses to cover our blueberry bushes to keep the local birds from ripping us off when the berries are ripe.  The poor snakey-wakey was twapped and couldn't get fwee!  I told Lisa I'd go get a shovel and put it out of its misery.  I mean, it was a freaking snake, not a bunny wabbit.

My wife, The Snake Whisperer, prevailed.  While I used a long stick to pin the snakes little noggin, Lisa took a pair of clippers and snipped away at the mesh, holding the snake by its tail as she did so.  Finished, she let go and I let go and the snake slithered away, no doubt giggling about more opportunities to sneak back and surprise me.

I hate snakes.

If you buy a gardner a hose...

My long-suffering wife has a wonderful garden that keeps us supplied with fresh veggies for months and months, not to mention blueberries and figs.  She does the raised beds thing, and thoroughly enjoys getting dirt under her fingernails and bringing baby plants along and into production.  Recently we made a trip to Home Depot with the plan to buy a hose to be used when watering the garden.  But one does not go with my LSW to a garden store to buy one thing.  It can't be done.  It's like me in a used book store - can't buy just one book. So I tagged along and watched as my bride picked out one of these and a couple of those and, oh!, need that as well.  It was fun.  I like to look at pretty flowers and she likes to acquire purchases that make gardening more productive.  So, that "one thing" grew almost as fast as the federal government.  When we checked out, we had picked up a heavy duty hose, a cone sprayer for the hose, a heavy duty nozzle, a bag of natural plant mix, two bags of pine nuggets mulch, a 175' capacity hose reel cart, a lavender plant, a calypso plant, and another plant I can't identify.  It was bright yellow.  She was thrilled with her purchases.  I was thrilled with mine - a large Diet Coke.

This morning, I dropped in, alone, at a used book store, landing to purchase just one book.  I have no further comment.

Everyday is #WritingWednesday

how_to_overcome_writers_block

Soon I will be a full-time writer which, frankly, scares the crap out of me. As I phase out, over the next few months, my time as a professor, I will be face to face with what I always wanted to be, 

said

 I was going to be, and now 

must

 be; that is, a writer. Not a part-time dalliance, not a self-absorbed "hobby," not anything else but one of those odd people identified as - a "writer." No excuses. Time to produce. So be it.

Gordon B. Hinckley said, "All writers should be put in a box and thrown in the sea." He might be right, but I will not be thwarted.  I will have to learn to say so long to procrastination, excuse-making, and most of my time on Facebook. I will have to produce. I will have to be a bit selfish with my time. I will have to be disciplined! A novel, and then another. Maybe a short story. A new novel.

I have no expectations of best-sellers, movie contracts, interviews on TV, ever-aware of Flannery O'Connor's quote about expecting too much which produces a softness that can lead to bitterness. I will write, revise, edit, and send off my work. Then I'll start something new. How weird is that?

I will develop a thick skin.

I will be disciplined. I will put in the research. I will seek critique from honest people I respect.

But to be honest, I'm not so sure I can avoid what the tremendous author, James Lee Burke, calls "corrosive self-doubt" that afflicts all writers of all genres. That's the ugly thing that can intimidate.

I'll keep you posted, dear reader, as I gradually ease into my new life as a writer. Shall I purchase a beret?

Up On Blocks

I am now a Son of the South. I do not hunt. I do not fish. I do not even play golf. I am an English professor for Pete's sake which means that I fit a certain stereotype.  I like to read a lot.  I write novels.  I have weird neckties that I sometimes wear.  None of these things qualifies me to consider myself now a bona fide, yet transplanted, Son of the South. So what does qualify me?  This:  I have an old pickup truck on blocks!  My Lord, I feel so accepted now, after decades of living in Dixie, I have come of age.  It didn't take a dog fight, moonshine (no comment), or even my own special road kill barbecue recipe.

It was having that truck up on blocks.

I came out one morning and the truck was leaning a tad to port, so took a look and there it was - a flat tire.  I needed to fix it, but the jack I had to use was for our Altima, and it didn't lift the truck high enough for me to take off the tire.  So, I got a big block of wood and put the jack on top of that and jacked that old pickup higher and higher until I could remove the tire.  then I took the tire in and picked it up two days later and put it back on the truck.

My old pickup was up on the block only a couple of days, but I'm counting it, even though it wasn't on cinderblocks, or even in the front yard.  Son of the South? That's me!

Jacked Up

I picked up a flat tire on the way to Newberry College a few days ago.  In the dark.  On the Interstate.  It began with a funny little sound coming from the back of the car, along with a little vibration.  Of course, I assumed nothing was wrong.  Prayed nothing was wrong.  I did not like the idea of being stranded on the Interstate in the pre-dawn darkness.  There be monsters about at that time of the night. So I ignored it.  With regard to my health, I have always ignored little signals of malfunctions in my physiognomy and the problems always disappeared, unless there was breakage.  And sometimes even then.  The funny little sound grew louder.

Pretty soon it was really, really hard to ignore the deafening "whop-whop-whop" sound of my right rear tire disintegrating and the colorful array of warning lights all over my dash.  I slowed down a bit.  It got louder until I couldn't hear myself ignoring it.  Fortunately, an exit was looming up so I was able to ease off the Interstate and onto a two-lane blacktop that led into a small town where we used to live.  But it was still a few miles to civilization.  So I nursed the car on three good tires and a sturdy rim to a parking lot on the outskirts of town.

I opened the truck and noticed that I had one of those dinky little spare tires, which was good.  What I didn't have was a jack.  I have no idea where it was, but for sure it wasn't in the trunk of my car.  So I walked a few short miles in the cold dark and into town, believing nothing would be open for a couple of hours, but I did find a repair shop that was open, but that did not do tires.  The man there gave me tow numbers to call for help, so I thanked him and walked back to my crippled transportation and called the first number, found a nice lady on the phone, and gave her my tire size and location.

An hour later I was back on the road and only $167 poorer.  I plan to find that jack when I get around to it.  Might come in handy someday, but I rarely get flat tires, so I might just ignore it.

What's in a Name?

Yesterday, dawn began with Dawn.  Dawn is my hygienist and I had an early appointment with her at my dentist's practice.  She gave me a good report and said she'd see me in September.  This did not surprise me, but still, it was a relief that nothing needed to be scraped, filled, bridged, removed, or reconfigured.  Then I headed to the mall with my computer, which, for some reason, had basically quit on me.  I did not have an appointment at the Apple store, so I was resigned to waiting there all day to be helped.  The Apple store in the Mall (I hate going to the Mall) didn't open until 10, so I waited, dreading spending the rest of the daylight hours waiting for a helper to minister to my techno-frustration.

But a helper-person came out of the Apple store with a little device in her hand and began scheduling appointments for those of us waiting for the store to open.  I couldn't believe it.  She took down my information and said, "We'll send you a text when your appointment is ready."  I said, "I don't text."  She said, "Oh, well, just come on in about fifteen minutes from now."  I did.  Another young woman, named "Sunny," ran a bunch of tests and we figured out the problem was me.  I'm not going into that.  Suffice it to say that my morning appointments' timing corresponded with the names of the people with whom I would be dealing.  I'm just glad I didn't have a lunch reservation somewhere only to find out the waitstaff's name was "Nooner."

The rest of the day was fine and dandy.  I met my long-suffering wife at a local soccer match because some of her 9th graders were playing another group of 9th graders nearby.  After watching a flotilla of teenage boys kicking each other in the shins, wandering around aimlessly, and bonking the ball with their heads, I remain unpersuaded about the efficacy of soccer as a sport.  Waiting for something exciting to happen in a soccer match is like waiting for a politician to tell the truth.  So, after the game, I went from the ridiculous to the sublime; that is, a dinner date with my long-suffering wife.

A fine and glorious day, all in all.  A blessing every which way.