{ 36 } On Always Telling the Truth

It's kind of sad when I can honestly say that the best thing I've written this month is an email to my brother. Did you read it? No?

Oh, that's because I left it up here for all of about two hours.

It wasn't scandalous or scathing. It was a humorous juxtapose of the different reactions I have to different situations, based on the silly pseudo-personalities my brother and I long ago decided live in my brain. But shortly after I put it up, I realized that without the brother/sister frame of reference, it really wouldn't have made any sense to the rest of you.

Since Day One of this blog, I have attempted to make every post about something having to do with writing. I have tried to keep all posts at least semi-relevant to either current things I am working on or my writing process. This is not a "lifestyle" blog. This is not my diary.

Obviously there's a "real life" tag over there on the right, but that's reserved for actual stories (and once a letter to my late uncle) based on real life, as well as things like this post, where I feel the need to tell you about something that affects my writing because it's based in real life.

Yes, yes: every once in awhile there will be a line or two that makes it in that seems a little TMI, but for the most part I try and keep it 99 so as to be interesting to random strangers and not bore or horrify them with my actual real life. That's also how you end up with posts like the last one.

And don't worry, I do have outlets for "those kinds of posts" with "those kinds of topics." They started a million years ago anonymously on MySpace (or was that two million years ago?) then finally graduated to uber-private and super-unlisted sites elsewhere.

In this day and age, it's too easy to find things based on real name alone. Once you know that, you can pretty much figure out what internet handle they use ("Sweet Charity," anyone?) and then crack into their soul.

But I figure, if there is some private aspect of my personal life I'm just dying to tell you about, I'll either tell you about it directly or spin it in to one of the amalgamations I discussed in the last post.

Above and beyond all else, though, I try and keep this blog fun to read while still maintaining the privacy and anonymity of my friends, family, and relationship partners. I mean, honestly: could you imagine if I poured my life out in every blog only to have some girl in your future read it and think, "Huh. I guess he is an asshole." That would just be mean.

In conclusion, my character Errol is still sitting in that damn sheriff's office in Lubbock and I feel really, really bad about that. However, that other character? The one that doesn't have a name yet but had that jerk for a boss?  She's been on some crazy adventures! Too bad I haven't written them in sequential order. There will be a new "Short/Long/Otherwise" soon. Promise.

Now stop slacking on your end and leave me a comment!

{ 35 } Art Imitating Life or You're So Vain

First, the writing is coming along. Not as fast or as furious as I wanted it to, but that's they way these things go. Plus, it doesn't help when there are two very different story with two very different sets of characters trying to fight their way out of you.

Sigh.

As I'm writing, my thoughts will often turn to you, my dear reader. Not the anonymous ones, but the people that I know personally and have read my stuff in the past and will, hopefully, read my stuff in the future.

If you were to ask me where my ideas come from, there's only one obvious answer: nowhere. Really. As I stated in Post { 31 } I Suck at Life, it's all about the Magical Sentence popping in to my head to get the process started. Then things fall in to place.

However, even though I might suck at life, I don't live in a vacuum (HA!), so often friends and acquaintances make their way in to my writing. It's the curse of knowing a writer.

When you read things, you might think to yourself, "Holy crap! That's me! She wrote me in to a story!" Then you'll be either happy or furious, depending on the character and how you think I interpreted you.

Well, hate to break it to you, but you're only half right.

To date, the only things I have written that were actually about someone in particular are the two obvious examples: "Billy" and "Sam." I don't think it gets much more obvious than that.

But the rest of the time, characters and conversations and situations are an amalgamation of all sorts of different crap, some of it real, some of it not. That's why you might think, "Huh. She wrote about my love of vintage Converse High Tops and the time I burned off my eyebrows lighting a cigarette on the stove, so I know it's me, but why did she say I'm a pig farmer in Vermont? Everyone knows I'm a federal judge!"

Because it's not you, silly. I obviously borrowed what I needed and dropped the rest. When I'm ready to write your biography, I'll let you know. (FYI: I don't know anyone that fits any of that description. I wish I did.)

Having said that, my writings aren't autobiographical either. I do have a habit of writing females whose names begin with "B," but that's about it. Yes, somethings are real (I actually did work for a perpetually hungover manager that would send me texts meant for his girlfriend and get mad at me for no reason), but again, the biggest relation I have to my characters is that they came out of my brain.

I suppose I really don't need to explain all of this to you, with you being the smart people I know you are. But my brain gets all stupid and panicky about this sort of thing. I guess that's the curse of being a writer that knows people.

{ 34 } The Words! They are a Killin' Me!

I just realize a swear a lot in my writing...

Sorry if you got offended at the words in my last post. I forget that not everyone lives in my brain. No matter: words are words, right?

Sticks and stones
May break my bones,
But words can never hurt me.

Sheesh: if people are breaking your bones, via sticks, stones, or whatever, you have much bigger problems than my swearing!

ON TO THE POINT!

In the last post, I gave you an excerpt from one of two things I'm working on. Well, today I have for you a synopsis of Thing Number Two!

Imagine it as the back-flap of the paperback, inner-flap if you're old school hardbound.

It's so pulpy! Read it out loud in your best movie-over voice. There's more to read post-flap, so continue on.

Enjoy!

~~~

 He had nothing to lose...
Until he lost the child he didn't know.

Errol Bixby is on a mission to find his daughter and stop the violent career criminal that has married Bixby's ex-wife.

Following a dark path of lust, deceit, murder, and coverup, Bixby's journey will take him from Texas, to Colorado, to the very heart of America.

On a nonstop quest to find out what happened to his own daughter, and the daughters of many others, Bixby will stop at nothing to uncover the truth.

Even if he dies trying.

~~~

So, for my feedback:

~ Can you image this story?
~ Where do you think this story is going? Where do you think it has been?

~ Can you imagine the story and rewrite the flap?

{ 33 } Undertaking

So, for those of you unawares, I took two weeks off from my job to write. What am I writing, you ask?

Whatever falls out of my fingers.

I've got two major works in the process. Here is an unedited excerpt from one of them. I can almost promise it will take a different form on the printed page, but here it is for now. Enjoy.

~~~

I once was a cook at a breakfast place where I had been the only female in the kitchen. Ever. The manager would constantly get drunk and confuse me with his on-again, off-again girlfriend. 

“YOU NEVER LOVED ME!” he'd shout from his text.

“Um, yeah. But I filled all the sauce bottles.”

“SAUCE! You FUCKED Pete for fucks!”

“You realize you're not texting Abby right now, right?”

“You CUNTS are all the same!”

When I'd ask him about it the next morning, he'd deny, deny, deny. And then meticulously scrutinize the things he thought I had left undone.

“You didn't cut onions.”

“I left a note saying we were out of onions.”

“Well, you didn't fill the salt shakers.”

“The shakers were in the dish...”

“The note you left was long and stupid! Why the fuck did I ever hire a girl to work here!” And off he would stomp, content in his hungover brain that me, the dedicated employee, and Abby, the girl that done him wrong, were one and the same. Fucking cunts.

~~~

{ 32 } The Truth Is Never Pretty

Hey there, Super Fans!

I've got a new find for you. I guess it's really not a "find" since I never lost it, but I have had it tucked away for a decade. It's another one of my "This Happened to Me" pieces, like "Billy."

A few distinct key differences: where "Billy" was raw and real and my soul laid bare, this piece is slightly more... embellished. For example, the main "me" character is way more shallow than I have ever been.

Next, "Billy" has an ending, a very concrete ending. This story ends with an adverb: "then." Why, you ask? Not entirely sure. Maybe it was due to laziness, maybe that I was all I had to say, or maybe because it's a story that doesn't end. Maybe it's still being written.

Also, in "Billy," the antagonist is dead and had been for awhile when I wrote it. In this piece, the antagonist is very much still alive. And that's why I waited to publish this piece. I wanted him to read it before I let all of you, because it's not exactly flattering. So, it only took a decade (original creation date is September 2005!), but he finally read it and I got the green light.

A quick bit of backstory: when I wrote this piece, I was surfacing back from one of the biggest meltdowns of my life. If you've ever seen me meltdown, you know that's saying a lot. There was so much hurt and anger and sadness and confusion going on, none of which was made better by the free-flowing alcohol and severe lack of responsibility. It took years and years for some of the hurt to heal. But it finally did, like it always does. I'm just glad (most) of us lived through it.

Enough of that. On with the show.

-----

SAM

Enter, page one, our first character: Sam Dumpy Mousekiwitz. From henceforth he shall be referred to as “Sam,” “Dumpy,” “Dumpy Mousekiwitz,” or “Mr. Mousekiwitz,” but never again as the name in full. Here is the last time you will see it in print in its entirety, so take in its full magnitude and remember it well: Sam Dumpy Mousekiwitz.

Of course, this was not the same Sam I had fallen in love with a year before. No, that was Sam the REAL ROCK STAR, self proclaimed. Never mind the fact that he could barely play guitar and sung no better than a sty full of sow. He did, however, possess that certain je ne sas quoi that only rock stars have, including the abilities to do copious amounts of drugs, drink like a fish, and throw temper-tantrums at the mere thought of not getting what they want.

I had initially fallen in love with him, as stated a year before, as a way to give in to my rebellious urges. Sam was the king of Robert Smith hair, a self-perpetuating alcoholic, and hotter than the ever-blazing fires of Hell. I wanted him bad, but alas, I was spoken for and he was only nineteen.
Regardless, he eventually aged and I eventually singled and, after a painful lust year, I finally acquired my prize.

In the beginning it seemed ideal: me, a punk rock princes with my gorgeous trophy rock star on my arm; him, a slobbering drunken mess with a fabulous older woman there to clean up after him. It was a match made in Hell and I relished every hardcore minute of it.

We spent the vast majority of our time together drunk and on his couch, surrounded by a never ending parade of other drunks. Sam still wasn't old enough to patronize the local bars, but I was more than happy to float through the days on our blurry oasis. The closeness of our persons and the constant state of intoxication, however, were beginning to cloud my judgment and make me overlook certain unavoidable, damaging traits that Sam was beginning to acquire.

For example, the sexy army pants he most commonly wore had been replaced by a heinous pair of orange (orange!) slacks from J. Crew (J. Crew!). What was happening?

Sam also had a black leather punk jacket, meticulously adorned with pins, paint, and patches. The delicious leather jacket was one of the things that helped define Sam as a rock star. Every shiny bit of metal that graced its surface was actually a medal, a badge proving he was worthy of stomping around town, throwing up on sidewalks, and screaming his particular brand of “music” into microphones. The jacket may have been a typical and traditional uniform, but it was also one of the very reasons I had initially been attracted to him, as ridiculous and petty as it may seem in hindsight. What can I say: I like shiny things.

However, more and more recently, the jacket was shoved to the back of the closet in favor of a disgusting red and black striped knit sweater, frayed at all edges from the constant picking, twisting, and tearing that Sam's busy hands would subject it to. It was hideous.

The change in clothing was nothing compared to the physical changes Sam was going through. His passion for drugs had waned and every night without an illicit substance coursing through his body became another inch around his waist. I didn't know it at the time, even though it is abundantly clear now, that this sickening, fat, terribly dressed thing I was dating was no longer Sam, but Dumpy Mousekiwitz.

Dumpy was Sam's alter ego. Or perhaps Dumpy was the dominate one. No matter: I did not like what I was seeing, and it was completely unacceptable for a woman of superior quality, me, to be dating this repulsive creature.

I had learned early on that the best way to improve my own social status was to date the best of the best: the ceaselessly attractive, the hardest partier, the most well-known. I am a social creature and defined by the societies I am surrounded by. It was a dog-eat-dog world and if I couldn't be the top of the food chain then I had no business eating. This was why Dumpy was so damaging to my reputation. I simply could not be seen with a sloppily dressed blob masquerading as a human.

Let's zoom back to page one for a moment, when you, the reader, first met Dumpy Mousekiwitz. Let me set up the scenario for you: I was sitting on the trashy couch in the trashy house Dumpy called home. The room was always in a perpetual state of disarray because of the copious amount of liquored-up children that were always crammed in between the walls. This is not a complaint, because I was a constant fixture in the room also. This was the place to come to see people and to be seen.

When Dumpy entered the room, everyone gave him an affectionate smile. I say affectionate, but I really knew they were more pity smiles. The others saw that the change had happened, too.

I hadn't seen Dumpy for a quarter of an hour or so. I figured he had probably been off telling the latest round of revolving-door roommates how happy he was to have them living on his couch. He stood in front of me and declared that we needed to take a shower because he was “all dried out”.
Dried out? He looked like he was retaining enough water to put out a forest fire, if squeezed the proper way. Plus, the very last thing I wanted to do was leave the party to, of all thing, take a shower.

Then-


-----

{ 31 } I Suck at Life

Two posts? In the same month? How is this even a thing?

Well, I'll tell you: I had way, WAY too much fun last night hanging out with people I've known forever, people I've met once, and people I've never met before. I mean, Wednesdays are usually fun in general, but every once in awhile, a Wednesday comes along that is super fun. Last night was one of those Wednesdays.

But I'm here to tell you about how awesome I am at having fun. No, I'm here to tell you how much I suck at life.

Since last night was so much fun (did I mention that?), I am a complete pile of uselessness today. I decided to at least pretend to be productive by doing something that requires very little movement. Hence, a new blog post. Aren't you lucky?

I actually went back and re-read every post on here, something I don't usually do. It depresses me how little progress I've made on my writing since I started this blog almost 7 years ago. Sheesh.

I promised to win 2009, have something published before 2010, and at least finish one damn writing project I started. None of those things happened. That makes me sad.

Let me tell you about my writing process. This is how the vast majority of my projects get started. I'll be driving down the road or trying to fall asleep or doing some other mindless task when, all of a sudden, BOOM! I'll get an amazing sentence in my head. I'll stop what I'm doing, jot down the sentence, and go back to my original activity (yes, it does get a little scary in the car). Then when I have real, actual time, I'll spin that one little sentence in to 10,000 or more words. This is how SSIBWO got started. This is how my YA book got started. It's not how HOS got started; that began with an image in my head, but same concept.

Do you how frustrating it is to have to wait for your brain to go all lolly-gaga before you can write? Not to mention if I don't have any paper. That actually happened the other night. I got the sentence, came up with character names and subplots, somehow managed to write the whole book in my head, even decided who was going to play whom in the movie adaptation, and I neglected to write anything down because I'm an idiot. Within the span of 30 minutes, I couldn't even remember the main character's name. Good work.

But here's the thing: if I could just remember that one damn sentence, I'm sure I would get the whole thing back. But I can't remember it. I know it was a semi-common phrase that would make my main character sound like a hippie if you added the word "man" to the end. Not helpful.

I do, however, have a plan.

As I have mentioned, I've been reading books like a crazy person, two to three at a time. I'm weird, I know. Anyway, most of the books have been amazing, but one I read was meh. It had an okay plot, but it lacked any distinct style or voice. I could have been written by a robot. For all I know, it was. No, I will not tell you who actually wrote it, because I don't feel that she's a bad writer, just an uninspired one. As we all know, there's only one writer I dislike enough to talk shit about (hint: she's the only one that has her own tag on the right).

Anyway, I decided to do what any writer would do when faced with the same situation: rewrite the book. Hack move? You betcha! Do I care? No. No I do not.

I'm not going to promise you I'll finish it, because we all know how shitty I am at keeping writing promises. But just know it's a thing I'm doing. I might not ever mention it again or I might actually complete it. That would be weird.

Until next time!

{ 30 } Updating Stuff

Not very exciting, I know.

Other than changing the background, the only other real change is the "tag cloud." See it over there on the right? Now you can view all post on a topic.

The one I think you'll like the most is "SHORT/LONG/OTHERWISE": clicking that will show you all the posts in which I've actually written something, rather than just blabbing away about whatever is going on in my tortured artist's soul.

Coming soon, I plan to add the full text of the article I wrote awhile back for Rooster magazine. I just have to find the damn thing. This is a constant problem for me.

As of late, I've been reading way too much. Like, uncomfortable levels of reading. Like, reading so much, it's a good thing I don't have friends because they might feel I've chosen books over them. And I'm not talking audio books either; since the beginning of the year, I've read six full books and I'm in the middle of two more. That's more than most people read in a year. And I've done it in under six weeks, on top of working full time, and, you know, living. Sheesh.

Also, as I pondered doing awhile back, I'm going to make audio recordings of all the stories and whatnot that are here. It's going to be a process, but it might be fun to read aloud the stuff I've written. Or maybe it will be just another laborious task that I start, which I hadn't, and never finish. Time will tell.

Finally, as I teased over on my Geeks Who Drink blog (the one I'm contractually obligated to write every week, recapping my misadventures in quizzing over at the Trail Head Tavern), I'm starting a new project. Another one. 'Cause, you know, I don't have enough partially finished projects to work on. So, keep an eye out for that.

I'm going to try and stop being so creatively lazy. No promises.

{ 29 } Andy Made Me Write This

So, Andy forced me to write a thing. And I did. I hate it. What do you think?

-----
Sometimes you do the acid; sometimes the acid does you.

Renee felt her house shift below her feet.
Was that an earthquake? No, earthquakes don't happen in Nebraska.
 That's when Renee remembered the two hits of acid she had taken.
Oh, fuck. I'm fucked.
Renee looked at the walls of her house: they were melting. Bricks moving in and out, as if some divine hand was pushing messages through from the outside. Pets: melting. Hands: melting.

Milk, milk, milk. I need milk.

Renee picked up the phone and called Luke.
Luke! I need milk!
Luke, on the other end of the line, was not confused. He knew. He knew what Renee had done.
Hang on, baby. I'm on my way. With milk.

Time... Time... Time passes...

Renee: I'm fucking dying!
Luke: I brought you a gallon of milk!
Renee: It's solid! It's solid!
Luke: No! Renee! Sleep!
Renee: Luke. I'm okay. I'm not... melting.
Luke: Renee... You're not melting. Lay down. Go to sleep...
Renee:  Sleep. I should melt in to sleep...

And she did.

Renee slept. Sordid dreams.
But in the morning, all was okay. No melting.
-----

It's a short. It has an ending. Pffft.

{ 28 } Reading Writers

Hey there, blog readers. This is the first thing I've written about anything since my letter to Uncle Gary in post 27. It's not that I haven't wanted to write, it's just that I've been in a funk. A "life sickness", if you will. I've been on a constant cycle of work-sleep-repeat with the occasional lost weekend or video game binge to break up the monotony.

I have a few points to hit, so let's jump right in, shall we?

First, my hometown of Black Forest has burned to the ground. Not all of it, mind you, but the vast majority. The house my family lovely constructed still stands. But the house we lived in before that, the one in which I met my then-best friend, where my bedroom had cloud wall paper and I wrote "I hate this place" on the inside of my closet door, the house my step-dad almost burned down himself by putting hot ashes in a plastic garbage can in the garage by the hay bale for my bunnies, where my brother and I buried our only time capsule, where I watched the first Gulf War play out on a 13 inch t.v., where I practiced singing "More Than Words" to get on Star Search, where my mom's best friends move in after we moved out is gone. The whole neighborhood. Gone.

I only bring this up because one, I'm sad about it and two, Mom would always remind us "It's not if, but when" in regards to the whole place going up in flames. Assuming the family was safe, what would we take? What would we save? I'm thankful my family and most of my friend's families no longer live there. Looking at all the things I own, I wouldn't be sad if most of it was lost. But my books! My writings! My pictures! Too much. What would I save now? What would you save?

Second, I finally have someone else to act as a sounding board for my ideas. His name is Ross and he's published. Boding = well. I'll keep you posted. Maybe my mush-brain can pump out something in totality for once.

Third, I have a friend named Marcus. He likes reading but doesn't like to read. Hell, if he made it this far, big-ups. I'm thinking about doing audio recordings of at least my writings so Marcus can enjoy them. Maybe I'll audio-tise all my blogs. Thoughts?

Finally, and to the point: I read a lot. If there's not a book in my hand, there's one on my iPod. When I read print, it's 100% true crime, usually Ann Rule. I can't help it: I love murder. And Ann Rule, being a former police woman, is my hero. A quick count of my true crime library has 13 titles, 11 of which are Ms. Rule. My audiobooks are mostly made up of fiction, usually zombie or apocalyptic. Currently I'm listening to A Canticle for Leibowitz by Walter M. Miller, Jr.. (Interesting side note: a lot of my favorite titles, Wuthering Heights, To Kill A Mocking Bird were the only novels published by those authors. Same with A Canticle for Leibowitz. Will I love it?)

Anyway, I went to grab a new paperback to read and, to my surprise, I have no more true crime on my shelf!!! I only buy books at ARC and they have been devoid of true crime recently, so what do I read? I grabbed the closest thing: The Odessa File by Frederick Forsyth. Why? No clue. It's the first fiction book (even though there are real elements) I've held in my hot little hands in quite awhile. I'm eating the book like cake. But here is my question to you: what the hell do I read next? Any suggestions from Reader Land?

I'll try to be more productive. Don't hold your breath.

{ 27 } "Farewell, hello, farewell, hello."

Hello dear readers. Sad news from Writer Land this week. My uncle, friend, and fellow Vonnegut-lover Gary Sellon passed away at the age of 62. He was one of my favorite people.

I was not able to go to the memorial. I really, really wanted to. Not just to pay my respects to my uncle (I can do that any day and time I want), but to be there for my family. Gary's passing has reminded me that life is short. It can end anytime, any place. Uncle Gary and Aunt Jody were visiting Mom in Vegas just before Gary got sick! As sad as it is, sometimes a death is the only way people that love each other can find the time to get together.

Alright, I'm not here to bum you out. I'm sure you have plenty of other factors in your life that can do a much better job.

Since I was not able to get to Iowa, I wrote a letter instead. I wanted Mom to read it, but she knew she would have started crying. So, she let the officiator, Pastor Jeni Bohls, read it.

When I wrote this letter, I directed towards my family but for Gary. Important fact to remember as you read it. It's rife with Vonnegut references, most of which, if you're not familiar with them, might seem a bit odd. But, as I said, it was written for Gary. If I had passed before him, and he had missed the opportunity to quote our mutually favorite author, I would have been spitting mad.

So here's what I wrote, posted for family that couldn't go, friends that didn't know Gary, and readers of my writings. I have annotated it in case you're interested in what the hell I was talking about. The first annotation is, of course, the title of this blog. You can read to annotations as you go, or view them all at the end of the letter.

As oxymoronic as it sounds, enjoy the eulogy.

* * * * *

Dear family,

Brecken here. I really wanted to join you today to honor and share in the memory of one of my favorite people: Uncle Gary. But, as you know and I know and I'm sure Gary would appreciate, life often gets in the way of living. This letter will have to serve as a tribute in my stead.

 

From early on, I thought my uncle was a cool guy. When I was little, for Christmases and birthdays, he would send me a sticker book and sheets of stickers. So, naturally, I thought Gary worked in a sticker factory! I was the envy of all my school friends. Mom never bothered to set me straight. Consequentially, I believed I had an uncle in the sticker business until a few years ago.

 

Then, when I was a teenager, Uncle Gary found out I liked Kurt Vonnegut. I had spent a summer tearing through book store shelves looking to fill the gaps in my aggregation. Who should come through? Gary. He gave me his entire Vonnegut collection, complete with titles that I had no access to, this being before the age of the internet. Again, I was the envy of my friends (the smart ones, at least).

 

I fancy myself an author, so I sometimes write articles, dissertations, what-have you. Whenever I would post something I had written on-line, Uncle Gary was the only person I knew for fact that would read it. It didn't matter if it was a review of a Fort Collins restaurant or a rant on how lax I'd been on actual writing, I knew Gary would see it. If I ever got discouraged or stuck, I'd just remind myself that I had at least one loyal fan.

 

While it's easy for me to get bogged down in self-pity, remembrance, and mourning for my uncle that I loved so much, my heart truly goes out to my cousins Ryan, Larkin, and Courtney and my aunt Jody. No matter how important to me he was, I know that Gary was infinitely more important to you.

 

Jayson and Amy, at first-blush, this family might seem a little wacky. And, in actuality, it is. I think I can speak for this whole weird-ass family, Gary included, when I say we are grateful that you joined us and brought a whole new generation of Beckers and Sellons.

 

Cole, Lily, Jaxon and Jacey, you had a wonderful grandpa that loved you very much. Kenadi, you're just going to have to trust us on this one. I know Gary was happy to spend as much time with you as was possible and I know you'll grow up to make him proud.

 

I'm going to miss my uncle Gary a lot. I know we didn't get to talk as much as adults as I would have liked, nor did I get to see him, or anyone of you, as much as I wanted to. We lost a really neat and special person this week. So it goes. I am very grateful that Gary was a part of my family and someone I'd consider a friend.

 

Gary always tried to live like everyday was just another day in Paradise. “If this isn't nice, I don't know what is.” Well, Gary, you have now been granted a one-way, all-expense paid trip to that Paradise. When you reach the end of the blue tunnel, know that Vonnegut is waiting for you there, microphone in-hand, to document your journey. Then you both can enjoy the dum-dums, shuffleboard, and beer.

 

In closing, I'll say to you, Uncle Gary, what Saint Peter said to Vonnegut on his last round-trip down the blue tunnel: “See you later, Alligator.”

 

Love,

Brecken

* * * * *

Annotations:

1) "Farewell, hello, farewell, hello." - These are the final words spoken by Billy Pilgrim, the protagonist in Slaughterhouse-Five, as he is assassinated. It is the message of the Tralfamadorians, the alien race that kidnapped Billy. Tralfamadorians believe that people only appear to die; they are still alive in the past, and death is only an "unpleasant moment". In the further words of the text: "All moments, past, present and future, always have existed, always will exist. The Tralfamadorians can look at all the different moments just that way we can look at a stretch of the Rocky Mountains, for instance. They can see how permanent all the moments are, and they can look at any moment that interests them."

2) "Cole, Lily, Jaxon, Jacey... Kenadi" - These are my cousins's kids, so my first cousins once removed (yeah, that's a real thing). Kenadi is the newest of the brood, born 16 August, 2012.

3) "So it goes." - This is probably the most recognised Vonnegut quote, repeted in Slaughterhouse-Five 106 times. It is another saying of the Tralfamadorians. According to the text, "When a Tralfamadorian sees a corpse, all he thinks is that the dead person is in bad condition in the particular moment, but that the same person is just fine in plenty of other moments. Now, when I myself hear that somebody is dead, I simply shrug and say what the Tralfamadorians say about dead people, which is 'So it goes.'"  Per the Onion's AV Club, it's another way of saying, "Shit happens, and it's awful, but it's also okay. We deal with it because we have to."

4) “If this isn't nice, I don't know what is.” - This quote is originally attributed by Vonnegut to his "good uncle" Alex. But Vonnegut repeated it in A Man Without A Country. When you notice that you are happy, Vonnegut urges you to "exclaim or murmur or think at some point" that phrase. I believe that, while Gary might never have said it out loud, that phrase was constantly running through his mind.

5) "one-way, all-expense paid trip to that Paradise", "blue tunnel", "Vonnegut is waiting for you there, microphone in-hand, to document your journey." - These are allusions to God Bless You, Dr. Kevorkian in which Vonnegut (ficticiously?) dies multiple times at the hands of Dr. K in order to interview the dead "on the hundred yards or so of vacant lot between the far end of the blue tunnel and the Pearly Gates".

6) "dum-dums, shuffleboard, and beer" - another allusion. This time to Happy Birthday, Wanda June, the only play written by Vonnegut. The Wanda June of the play is a little girl who was killed on her birthday by a drunk driver of an ice-cream truck. She goes to Heaven and she loves it: she feels that dying is a good thing and everyone that is in Heaven should be thankful to the one that sent them there. She says that they can't be mad because they're all too busy playing shuffleboard and the dead soldiers in Heaven "just love the shrapnel and the tanks and the bayonets and the dum dums that let them play shuffleboard all the time - and drink beer.". So there's that.

7) "See you later, Alligator.” - A direct line from God Bless You, Dr. Kevorkian. The "last round-trip" refers to the fact that it shall be the last time that Vonnegut allows Dr. Kevorkian to kill him and revive him for a past-life interview. It is the final line in the introduction and I believe the best last thing I could have said to my uncle.

{ 26 } Poetry and Other Atrocities

Warning: this post is long and rant-tastic. It's also a great read. But, if you're short on time, feel free to jump past the diatribe on poetry and skip straight on to the (gulp) poems I wrote. 

In some sort of desperate attempt to recapture a missing part of me that I had forgotten I even had, I've been sorting and sifting through old files and old blogs, looking for little bits and pieces of writing. My really old stuff is all hand written, which is a problem because I have about a billion notebooks. But my files are limited and way easier to sort through.

To the point: I have some old new stuff to share with you again. But I should warn you that they are both poems. Faithful readers and new obsessive readers should know that I have a slight poetry fear, as I ranted about it in Post #15. The quick and dirty is thus: I find poetry pretentious and overrated.

Now hold on, hold on. I grew up on poetry. My parents were both huge poet freaks, in reading and writing (my dad had a poem published in American Poetry Anthology, 1984, ISBN 0-88147-008-2, for those of you that didn't read Post #15). Some of my first books were by Jack Prelutsky, Shel Silverstein, and Jeff Moss (some are even signed by the authors). I would regularly recite "The New Kid On The Block" and "Homework! Oh, Homework!" for talent shows.

I eventually graduated to Anne Sexton, Sylvia Plath, and Charles Bukowski. Talk about a leap. Sexton's "I Remember" can still make me cry. I have "So This is Love" by Lorna Crozier committed to memory. Once I hit 30, Judith Viorst's age poems rang so many true notes it was startling. A glace at my book shelf and I see no less than twenty poetry books.

Now you maybe wondering, how can I claim to dislike something that I seem to have such a fondness for? Easy answer: I read too much.

Poetry for me was like a favorite food. I would eat it every day. I would devour it. I would try to recreate it on my own. I would seek it out in hidden places, looking for undiscovered gems. But eventually, as with any craving, you start to get sick of it. The love starts to wane. One day you go cheap and grab something off a food cart and then it's over. Your favorite food now disgusts you. I read so many poems by so many "poets" that I couldn't stand it.

Please don't misunderstand my "pretentious and overrated" comment. There is good and bad everything, but it seems to be that bad poetry severely outweighs the good. If poetry was a girl, I could use Longfellow's words to describe most of his own genre: "And when she was good, she was very, very good, But when she was bad she was horrid."

To point out the obvious, between my parent's history and my early readings, poems were some of the first writings I attempted. And, as I said in Post #15, most of it was, indeed, horrid. Shamefully horrid. I remember writing some of it and thinking, "Oh, man. This shit is good. It totally conveys my feels and will express to the world what an awesome talent I am." Then, years later I'll find it, read it, and wonder what the hell was wrong with me. Page after page of audacious, self-overrated crap. John Keats I was not. Hell, I wasn't even Warren G.

Enough ranting. I did have a point here somewhere... Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah. I remember...

As I pointed out in Post #15 (which you should probably just go read already. It's even got a Dune quote!), I did manage to crank out some acceptable diction over the years and I was going to self-publish a book of poetry. Mostly juvenilia, but possibly some newer stuff, of which there is little). Which brings me back to my original thought: I have new old material to share, written in 2008. I think these are probably the last poems I wrote. Maybe they suck, maybe they're good. I don't really care. If nothing else, I think they do prove that I smoke too much. To sum this all up: mayonnaise.

 * * * * *

Keep Working - 4 Feb. 2008
Nine a.m. comes early
To those of us without a schedule.
And things are over again,
Just like they've been over before:
A final prospect which I know to be true.
The dogs scratch, the cigarettes melt
Like they've done since time began.
But now time is ending.
Sleep is an impossible dream,
A far away phantom which I cannot catch.
To try is to fail.
To achieve a small victory is to lose.
Misgivings give way to an unspoken good-bye.
What you thought was a reality
Is now a dream you will never have.
The clocks tick,
I should sleep.
Nine a.m. comes early
To those of us without a schedule.

* * * * *

Stay Busy - 27 Feb. 2008
This is an empty house.
It can be filled it with smoke,
But it is fading.
They look at me with sad eyes.
The ones we love.
The ones that need us.
I tell them no.
What else is there to say?
Another drink will not fill the void,
Yet the trying is real.
Supposing that nothing means something,
What is it that nothing means?
The house cries,
The loves cry,
Yet I have no words to comfort their grief.
Another night with my Best Friends,
Alone.

* * * * *

 

{ 25 } Oh, CRAP!

I just realized it's been ten months since I last posted, and way longer than that since I posted anything substantial. Such a slacker. But, life gets in the way of living, you know.

I decided that I needed to provide you with some new fodder. So, I dug up some old fodder to entertain you. I now present you with a very short short story with an open-ended plot I originally wrote 6 August 2008 called "It's A Marvelous Night For A Moondance".  Enjoy.

* * * * *

It's A Marvelous Night For A Moondance


A thin line of smoke drifted toward the ceiling from the cigarette pressed between her fingers. Her head was pounding. It was the same thing, only a different day: tired, bored, and hung over.

She watched as the smoke curled and twisted in the slight breeze that was slipping under the bedroom door. What day was it? Monday? Thursday? It didn't matter any more. Everyday was like the last in her constant haze. All that mattered was that she was lying comfortably, smoking. In the back of her mind was a lingering thought that she had something she was supposed to be doing, but it was trumped by the feeling that her head was in a vice.

The phone rang and she disregarded it, closing her eyes. She mentally begged it to stop, but the phone didn't comply. Almost tempted to get up and answer it, she thought the better and didn't move. There wasn't going to be anyone on the other end that she wanted to talk to anyway. Her mom, a bill collector, maybe even a drinking buddy. None of them mattered. What mattered was that she didn't move. Her headache was too big.

Finally her smoke needed to be ashed. Where the fuck was the ashtray? The only thing she could see was her cigarette in the faint bit of light drifting in from the closed curtains.

She closed her eyes again. Movement was becoming a necessity if she didn't want to ash on the floor. The ashtray wasn't on the ground next to her. No, that was too far away. It wasn't balanced on her stomach. She'd be able to feel it. The only possible place it could be was on the bed, opposite of the direction she was facing. She slowly rotated her pounding head, eyes still closed.

Once the pain of movement had subsided, she allowed her eyes to flutter open. She had found the ashtray, but she had also gotten a first glimpse of the man lying in bed next to her.

She knew who he was. She hadn't brought a stranger home from the bar. No, she had brought him home from the bar.

He was in his boxers, sleeping peacefully enough: attractive face calm, hands crossed delicately over chest, breaths slow and rhythmic. Every inch of his body was relaxed and vulnerable.

It was then that her thoughts turned to murder.

* * * * *

{ 24 } Apparently I'm a PC Fascist

I got the job at Rooster. Yet Simon, the hotter-than-burning-hot-fire editor, has not approved nor disapproved my submitted article ideas. Boo.

I am mad at my dad for not telling me my aunt Margaret died... in MAY. That's why I haven't called.

I miss my friend Annette who is on a kibbutz in Israel.

Andy, I stole four beers. Kill me.

(Thanks, Propagandhi, for the blog title. The kids don't stand a chance.)

{ 23 } Are You There Readers? It's Me, Writer.

As of late, I've been busy and sick. Mostly busy, which I'm sure lead to my dumb head cold. That and winter is quickly approaching.

Blarg.

I have not been writing as I should be. No, I found "Billy", considered it a small victory, and haven't progressed. I have, however:

• Read a ton of Ann Rule books,
• Built some Ikea furnature,
• Set up a FaceBook page for this blog.

Oh, what? You didn't notice? Maybe that's because you're a terrible friend. Find it on the FB or click the "Like" button on the right and you'll get the (infrequent) updates I post.

It helps me stay motivated when you're looking over my shoulder.

Don't be a jerk.

{ 22 } The Lost Has Now Been Found!

So, if you remember back to Post #14, I introduced a story called "Billy" that I had written for a massive online writing contest called Field Report. Well, shortly after I had submitted said story, the proprietors of FR suffered some family tragedy. Despite being hailed as the best thing for writers since the invention of the actual written word from every blog about wrting to MFing Time magazine, FR went down.

And guess what went down with it? That's right, "Billy". The best short story I've ever written... primarily because it's the only one I've actually finished, but also because it's damn good.

Anyway, alright, no problem, I should have the story backed upped on at least ten sources, right? Right?

Eh, not-so-much. I thought I did, but an extensive search of Jihad (the desktop) and Mustachio (the laptop) turned up nothing. I even emailed the only address I could find for one of the original starters of FR in a desperate hope that he had a back up of all stories submitted. No dice. The IRL Billy was dead and the story "Billy" was lost. A winner am I.

But then something awesome happened: the BF's laptop stopped working. Doesn't sound that good, right? Probably not in the usual sense, but the death of the Mac forced him to back up and move all the files from the old Mac to the new. And that's when the amazing BF stumbled across "Billy".

Before you get in to this story, I AM still working on SSIBWO. And I have a new article on Examiner. Read. And read.

Without further ado, I present to you "Billy" in its full, unadulterated, lost-on-the-interwebs-but-found-by-an-awesome-BF-by-total-mistake form. Remember that this is a true story and I lived every sad, honest minute of it. Enjoy, cry, whatever.

-----

BILLY

I am fourteen years old. I am still too young to know about the world, so I hold beliefs and prejudices that have no merit or reason. Of course, I wont know about this until later, when I am old enough to realize that life doesn't fit neatly into a little, narrow box.

I travel to Arizona to see my friend Erik who still lives in the town I left four years prior. While I was gone, I was trying my best to fit in to a place where everybody had known each other from birth. Erik, however, had remained and was flourishing in those very same types of relationships.

"Wait until you meet my friends," he boasts. "You'll love them." And I do: funny, artsy, creative. All the things I had lost in the move, none of the things my new friends were. One of Erik's friends sparks my attention the most: Billy.

Billy is like no one I had ever met. As witty and spunky as Erik and I are, Billy tops us. We shoot some short films, as we used to do before I left, and Billy plays every part assigned to him as if he were born for the role. My trip down Memory Lane is now tinged with a schoolgirl crush on a boy I hardly even know.

My last night in town, my world is rocked. For our Friday evening entertainment, we’re going to an all-ages night at a club; a gay club. I am staggered. In my young, small-minded views, being gay wasn’t right. How could these people that I admire so much think that it was okay?

“You can be straight, but you don’t have to be narrow,” Billy tells me. While I'm not really sure what to think, Billy currently holds sway over my juvenile heart. If Billy says it’s fine, then I’ll go along for the ride.

* * *

I am fifteen years old. Billy and I have been holding a long-distance friendship, talking at least once a week. I hear about his girlfriend, about his new apartment, about his cat that he named after one of the crossdressers from the club. It’s light and fun and innocent, until reality slaps me across the face.

“I broke up with my boyfriend this week,” Billy tells me. I’m puzzled.

“Don't you mean your girlfriend?” I must have misheard. I was sure Billy had a girlfriend. He had mentioned her on more then one occasion.

“Well, I broke up with her too.” Pause. “I’m bi-sexual.” I swallow hard. How could this be real? How could this person that I cared so much for be something that I thought was so wrong? I panicked.

“I’ll have to call you back,” fell out of my mouth. I had a hard reality to face: either this witty, beautiful, lively boy was really something disgusting and to be hated, or I was being ignorant and blind. Had I really been narrow-minded all this time for no reason? How could I love something I thought I hated?

* * *

I am sixteen years old. I return again to Arizona to visit Erik. While he is preoccupied with his girlfriend and his job, I take a day to spend with Billy.

His bi-sexual facade has ended: Billy is gay. All my illusions of us ever being together vanish as I read the “I Know What Boys Like!” sticker on the back of his car, visit his tiny studio apartment and glance at the naked man calendar on his wall, and accidentally stumble on to his collection of “adult pleasure” devices.

We sit under his black light as he makes me a tape of dance remixes. I have come to accept that Billy is still the same boy I fell in young love with two years prior, still charming and witty.

Except now, perhaps as a way for me to justify and embrace my new-found tolerance, instead of just calling him my friend Billy, my mind refers to him as “my gay friend Billy”. I don’t view it as negative. Actually, I don’t view it as anything. Simply, he’s gay, he’s my friend, and he’s Billy.

We drive around Phoenix in his car listening to The Violent Femmes. At every stop sign he slows just enough to say, “S-T-oh, I’ll read it later!” and off we go with a laugh. He tells me that he has begun working in a gay bathhouse passing out towels. I’d never heard of such a thing, so he explains the concept, casually describing the anonymous sex and drug use he enjoys there. He also tells me that he is HIV positive.

I am floored. Billy has yet again thrown me a curve ball. My mind races back to when he had first told me has was bi, then gay. Now this? I was right to be so fascinated by him, as every encounter we have ever had has forced me to grow up a little more. I was again faced with a choice: abandon him out of fear for the disease in his body that I knew very little about or continue to accept my friend.

* * *

I am nineteen years old. Erik calls me.

“Billy’s dead. I drove him back to his family in Montana to try and get better, but it didn’t help. The ass hole wasted a lot of my time and money just to come back to Arizona and OD. He had something I was supposed to give to you, some tapes of Disney theme songs in Swedish or something. I don’t know. I’m just glad it’s over.”

Speechless, I drop the phone. My gay friend Billy is now my dead gay friend Billy. I hadn’t spoken to him since I was last in Arizona, the night he had told me he had HIV. The night that I had learned that friendship saw no illness.

Trying to keep my voice from shaking, I press the phone back up to my ear. “Erik, why are you being so cold? Billy was our friend!”

“Not in the end,” he tells me. “His only friend was drugs. He used me and anybody else he could.”

“But, why didn’t you call me sooner? Maybe I could have helped, maybe I could have-"

Erik cuts me off. “No. We’re all better off without him. He just wasn’t the same.”

I crumble as I realize I did not get to tell Billy goodbye or how much he meant to me or how much he had opened my eyes. All that remained was the new title: my dead gay friend Billy.

* * *

I am twenty-nine years old. I have not been back to Arizona since the last night I saw Billy. I still have the mix tape he made for me in his apartment, but I can’t listen to it. The catchy, synthesized songs bring me to tears. I have spoken to Erik less times then I can count on one hand. Whenever I have, the subject inevitably turns to Billy, if only for a moment, and Erik reminds me that it’s better that he’s gone.

I never did get the audio tapes Billy willed to me. I don’t even have a picture to of him to see if the face I remember is really what he looked like.

All that is left is the memory I have of my dead gay friend Billy, the growth inspired by my gay friend Billy, the love and respect that I’ll always have for my friend Billy.

No matter what he became at the end, regardless of the title I will remember him by, he was and always will be one thing above the rest: my friend Billy.
---

{ 21 } The New Prologue Is Here! The New Prologue Is Here!

Did you notice that I started a FB page for Writing As I Write? Probably not. I did it so this blog could be followed by non-blogger users in a more streamlined fashion. Don't expect a lot of updates, but I will post a update to the FB page when there's an update to the, uh, blog. Fair enough.

As far as new stuff, I promised and I am delivering! Here is the very rough draft of the prologue of my new novel (and please note that I wasn't able to properly paragraph format this, so don't yell about that), working title SSIBWO.

Yeah, it's a crappy working title (and for the love of all that is good, don't ask what it stands for), but when I named it, I really didn't think it was going to go anywhere. Well, 3,800 words later...

Without further ado, THE PROLOGUE!!! (Comment, share, do whatever it is you do to get the word out and keep me WRITING!)

-------

What I remember most about those days was riding around the lake with Grandad in his old truck.

That was mostly every summer: the lake, the hot sun, the bumpy rides.

Every winter there was only snow, wind, and Mamma heating water for Hot Toddys. Brandy in her's and Dad's, only lemon and honey in mine. Those Toddys were all that would make winter bearable.

But in the summer, the sun would turn my arms brown and my hair blonde, and Grandad and I would take our long drives around the lake, talking like we were two old friends.

He would tell me stories about the war, at least the parts a ten year old could handle. I knew all the names of his long-ago pals: Briggs, Scott, and my favorite, One-Eyed Sal, who had two perfectly good eyes.

Grandad would tell me about how he met Grandma, who died before I was born. It was the same story a lot of American G.I.s shared: he a sailor, she a nurse. But I never tired of hearing about Grandma's simple blue dresses at the Navy dances and how Grandad would announce, “Boys, Annette's dance card is full!” before engaging her for the rest of the night.

On our last night of looping around the lake, before things got dark and strange, Grandad said to me, “She died too soon, Bell. You would have been the apple of her eye, just like your mother had been.” He turned his own eyes back to the road. “Let's get you home. If we miss dinner again, we'll never hear the end of it.”

When we pulled in to the driveway, I could see Mamma and Dad framed in the kitchen window. Mamma was drying her hands on a towel and Dad was sneaking up behind to steal a kiss. Smiling, I opened my door and got out of Grandad's truck.

We were greeted by the aroma of a berry cobbler cooling on the stove, Dad and Mamma smiling at us, and a table set full of summer delights.

“You two were almost late again,” Mamma said as she pulled out two chairs.

“Oh, Sandy. You know your daughter: quite the talker!” Grandad gave me a wink.

I shook my head with a giggle and sat down. I was almost sure Mamma and Dad knew what Grandad and I talked about on our drives, but I also knew that Grandad and I had our secrets.

The four of us settled in to a content dinner. It was a perfect summer night.

But things can change, suddenly and without a hint of warning.

When I woke up the next morning Dad was sitting alone at the kitchen table, his head in his hands. He looked up, and my father's usually smiling face was fallen and streaked with tears.

“Daddy, what's wrong?”

“Sit, Annabel. Sit down.” I did as I was told and he clasp both of his hands around mine. “It's your mommy, baby girl. We can't find her.”

I didn't understand. Mothers don't just go missing. I knew that sometimes they left, ran off with other men to start new lives, but not my mother. She loved her family, her life.

“Last night, after you went to sleep, she got a call from the hospital. Mrs. Jenkins's baby decided to come early and Dr. Cliff is in Casper for his daughter's wedding.” Dad glanced at the phone, though it sat silently in its cradle. “Mamma called at about eleven last night, said the baby was fine, said Mrs. Jenkins was fine, and said she's be home as soon as she got cleaned up and made the drive.”

The hospital was in the next town, only a thirty minute drive. I had gone to work with Mamma a few times. When I was there, it was a lucky day for me when someone from our town had a baby. I would usually get to hold it.

My father squeezed my hands tighter. “Your mom didn't make it home last night. I waited until one before I called the hospital, and they said she had left twenty minutes after I had talked to her.”

A quick glance at the clock told me it was well after nine. “Well, where has she been all night then, Daddy?”

His eyes pinched tightly shut. “I don't know, Annabel. That's why I said she is missing.”

His tone made me feel younger than I was. I pried my hands from his and folded them around myself. “Sorry, Dad. I just don't understand.”

My father's eyes met mine, staring intently. “I don't either, Anna. I didn't mean to snap. It's just that... that...”

Before my father could stammer out his words, the front door slammed and Grandad flew in to the kitchen. He threw his arms around me. “Oh, my baby. My poor baby,” he softly murmured in to my shoulder. I wasn't sure if he was referring to me or my recently missing mother.

Eventually Grandad straightened up, smoothed out his hair and sat down in the chair between my father and I. For the first time in my life, the two strongest men I knew looked like the lost ones. They were crumpled, beaten, and older looking than either of them had seemed the night before.

“You called the hospital again?”

“At least every ten minutes for the last seven hours. No word. Stacy promised she'd call if she heard anything. Did you go to the police?”

“Of course I did, Jim, but they said I couldn't do anything. You need to go down there yourself.”

Dad got up from his chair. “Well, now that you're here to watch Anna, I'll go.” He turned towards me. “Anna, stay here with Grandad and make a list of-”

“Oh no you don't!” I stood up so quickly that the chair fell over behind me. “I'm going with you, Dad. If Mamma's missing I want to do everything I can!”

He put his hand on my shoulder. “Baby, the best that you can do is stay here right now and wait for news. Let me handle the police.”

I looked from Dad to Grandad and back again, silently pleading with each of them to let me go to the police station.

“Take her along, Jim. I'll wait here for any calls. She's old enough to be a part of this.”

I didn't wait for a confirmation from my dad. I ran to my room, pulled on a pair of jeans under my nightgown, and slammed my sockless feet in to the first shoes I could find. I was back in the kitchen and grabbing for my father's left hand before his right had even neared the keys.

“Be a big girl, Bell. We'll find your mamma,” Grandad said as the door closed.

On the ride to the station, the silence was broken only by the occasional smack my father would give the steering wheel. I had sunk down as far as I could in the bench seat, trying not to make my presence regrettable.

Dad slammed the truck in to park so fast, it rocked. He jumped out without closing his door and ran around to my side to let me out. “Annabel, Grandad is right: you are old enough to be here.” He helped me jump down from the tall cab. “You're a good girl, but while we're here, I need you to listen and not talk. Understand?” I nodded as he grabbed my hand and started towards the station doors.

Miss Kathy, the receptionist, met us inside. “Oh, Jim, I'm so sorry. Kent is waiting for you in Conference Three.” Dad patted her on the shoulder, never stopping his forward advance. “There's a man up from the Cheyenne DCI office, too.”

I knew I had heard DCI before, but the letters just bounced around in my mind, not finding their meaning. Dad's hand clench and his feet speed up a step. I struggled to keep his pace, my short legs at a full gait.

“Why in the hell is DCI here, Kent?” Dad barked as the conference room doors flung open.

The two men already inside the room got up from their chairs. “Now hold on, Jim,” said the man I assumed was Kent. “I called them. Just in case we needed them.”

“Why in the fuck would we need them? This isn't a fucking murder case.”

“Mr. Pierce, I see we have a little lady in the room.” The second man approached, his red face smiling down at me. “And what's your name, pretty girl?”

“Annabel,” I said as I turned away from the man and towards my father. The man frightened me, but I knew it was rude not to answer an adult.

“Well, pretty Annabel, why don't you have a seat right here while us grown-ups have a discussion, okay?”

I looked up at Dad. He released my hand and motioned for me to sit down. “Go on, Anna. Sorry about the language.” I gave him a meek smile and folded my hands in my lap. Adults swearing was nothing new and it didn't bother me. What did bother me was the word “murder”.

The red-faced man extended his hand to my father, who brusquely shook it. “I'm Ted Bowler and, yes, I'm from criminal investigations. But I'm only here to assist, depending on the, uh, nature of this case.” He shot me another smile and a shiver ran through me. “Now, Mr. Pierce, how likely is it that your wife just decided to get away from it all for awhile?”

My father's eyes grew wide. “Like she ran away? Kent, I am not dealing with this man.” He raised a finger and took a step back. “You've known Sandy since high school. Let's just get this missing person report filed so we can find her.”

“Mr. Pierce, I am in no way insinuating that your wife would leave you and pretty Annabel here due to some sort of lack of love, but you know these women! They get restless. They want to see the world. Want to see what they might be missing.”

Hot tears began to sting at my eyes. I had to bite my lip to keep from screaming at the man.

“Look, Mr. Bowler. Your office left a bad taste in my mouth after the way you handled the Thompson girl. I don't want Sandy to turn in to a similar headline.”

The tears I was trying to hold back began to silently stream down my face. Pam Thompson was the reason I had heard DCI before. Pam and I had been in the same first grade class. One day she wasn't there, having been replaced by a lot of men in suits, buzzing around town, asking parents questions that made the air feel thick. Weeks went by and the kids, all of us, weren't allowed to go anywhere without a parent. Football games and dances were canceled. Movie theaters let out before the sun went down. They finally found Pam. Her little body, the same size as mine, had been shoved in a cave by the lake, a boulder blocking it from view. That was the first time I had lost a friend and also the first time I had heard the word murder.

Mr. Bowler's smile turned in to a frown. “We handled the case the best we could, Mr. Pierce. This is a big state and we are not a very big agency.”

“Which is why I called them as soon as I talked to Sandy's dad,” Kent said. “I wanted as much support from Cheyenne as I could get up front.”

“Fine,” Dad said. “I guess if we need them it's good to have them here sooner rather than later. Now can we please get this missing person report done and on the wire?”

“What time did you say your wife last called you, Mr. Pierce?”

“At about eleven last night. I was expecting her by midnight, twelve thirty at the latest.”

“And she's a doctor, correct?” Mr. Bowler had begun writing things on a note book on his lap.

“Obstetrician. Out in Torrington.”

“So she got called out in the night to deliver a baby, called when she was done and soon to be on her way home?”

“Yes. Didn't Kent fill you in on this? Don't you already have the report filled out? Let's just sign it and start looking for Sandy.”

“Slow down there a second, friend.” Ted Bowler held up his hand, his pudgy fingers dwarfing the pen they held. “We cannot just yet file this missing person report. There is, after all, a twenty-four hour waiting period for adults not at risk.”

My father was on his feet again, both fists slamming the table. “Fu-” his eyes darting to me, “Forget your waiting period! My wife did not come home last night and I want to know where she is! And I am not your friend!” His whole body was shaking, every last once of patience gone from him. My father was a usually a calm man and I too shook a little, never having heard him yell.

“Mr. Pierce, my hands are tied. We cannot risk wasting valuable time and resources on a woman who might have just gone to her mother's for the day.”

I could keep my silence no longer. “My Grandma is dead! And my Mamma loves me and Dad as much as any woman could. She would never run away from us! Never!”

Father, Mr. Bowler, and Kent all stared at me. I gulped in a breath, startled by my own voice. A little softer, but none the less pointed, I said, “Finding out where my mother is is not a waste of anything.” I pulled my knees to my chest and threw my arms over my head.

The room was still for a moment, then I could fell Dad stroking my hair. “Anna's right, Mr. Bowler. Finding Sandy is not a waste of anything.”

“Jim, Ted, let's all just calm down a bit. Anna? Anna, honey?”

“What?” I didn't uncover my head to look at Kent. I was too upset to care if he thought me ill-mannered.

“Why don't you go outside and talk to Kathy? I think her sister is coming to town next week and she might want to hear some ideas you have on places to take her.”

I knew he was trying to get rid of me. I didn't want to leave, but I also knew that if the adults could speak freely, Mamma might come home sooner. I reluctantly unwrapped my arms.

Dad knelt down beside me. “No one's mad at you, Baby.” He lowered his voice. “Mr. Bowler is, for lack of a better word, an asshole and he's making your daddy very angry. Go talk to Kathy, would ya? Have her take you to Grandad if you want.”

Father knew I would do anything he asked. Of all the men I knew, he and Grandad were the only two that showed kids any respect. For my father, I found my legs and headed towards the lobby.

“Mr. Kent, Mr. Bowling,” I said as I pushed the doors open, sunlight spilling in to the conference room. “I love you, Daddy.”

“Love you too, Baby Girl.”

Before the door latched shut behind me, I heard the final words of Mr. Bowling: “Cute kid you got there. Ever get this angry towards her or your wife, Mr. Pierce?”

Nothing was ever the same as it was the last day I saw Mamma. The days became shorter, and so did the area Dad would let me go alone. Instead of taking drives around the lake with Grandad, I would sit in the living room while he and the other men would drive around the hills searching for my mother or her car.

In the long weeks before school started, Dad wouldn't let me out of his sight, telling me he loved me every time he spoke. The only place I was allowed to go alone was the two blocks to the gas station to get candy or a soda.

It was fun at first, my five minutes of alone time on the walk, but then I began to hear the whispers.

“That's her. That's the girl who's mother disappeared.”

“I heard she ran off with an intern from the hospital.”

“I heard the father had something to do with it.”

“No one could leave such a precious little girl. I bet there was an accident and the father covered it up.”

After a few weeks, I couldn't take it. It was nice when the cashier would slip me an extra piece of candy, or when Grandad's friends would bring me a new toy before they went on their nightly searches. But I didn't want to hear the whispers, see the sad look on adult's faces when they talked to me or about me. I spent the rest of the summer alone, trying to watch the television that someone would inevitably shut off as soon as a news story would come on.

Soon enough, school started again. Dad or Grandad or one of the neighbor ladies would always see me to and from school. When I asked Dad why only I was being walked, not all the kids like when Pam Thompson had gone missing, he said it was because he loved me the most. I didn't understand, but the sadness I could see in him, the sadness that grew deeper everyday Mamma was gone, made me not question him any further.

By winter, things had gone from bad to worse. Dad had gone from keeping a close watch on me to keeping me under lock and key. As soon as the days got shorter, so did my time allowed out of his sight.

I missed the Toddys Mamma would make for us. Dad never made them; I suspect because they made him think of Mamma. I didn't dare make them because Dad didn't allowed me to use the stove.

Grandad was at our house whenever he wasn't out searching. I was glad to have him there, as Dad always seemed distant. But the disappearance of Grandad's only child had aged him. Before, it would only come in flashes, when we talked about Grandma or when someone would call and tell him that one of his war buddies had died. Everyday without Mamma, though, seemed to carve lines deeper in to Grandad's face. The sparkle that had once lit his blue eyes was dimmed.

The days were strange for me, too. I had gone from having a house filled with all the love a child could need, love that was always given freely, to place that was cold. My mother was gone and Dad and Grandad had hearts that were too heavy. The comfort and stability that I had known had been destroyed, replaced with darkness and fear.

I wasn't afraid of going missing too, but I had to live in the shadow of the loss of Mamma. It wasn't that I didn't miss her or love her with every ounce of my being. Quite the contrary: I would have done everything to bring her home, to have normalcy restored in our lives. I missed her just as much as Dad and Grandad, but I never forgot that life was for the living. That was something that Mamma had taught me when I was very young, and I clung to that like I would have her hand. I knew the right thing to do was to grow up to be the person she wanted me to be: a happy, fulfilled woman like her.

Once winter was in full swing, there was very little for anyone to do. Searches had to be called off because of the snow drifts, not that anyone was holding out much hope of finding Mamma anymore anyway. We would make sure the posters we had put up were readable, and Daddy would try and get on the news or radio once a month to keep interest alive. It seemed, though, that everyone else was going back to normal, just like after Pam Thompson. Everyone but us.

Dad asked me one night if there was anything he could get me to keep me entertained during those cold, long nights. I told him all I wanted was a subscription to a magazine. A travel magazine. I had taken to sitting in my room after the sun had gone down, dreaming of far away places that I could be. Places where Mamma might have gone, if I had actually thought for a second that she left us.

Once the first issue arrived, it made me happy to browse the pictures of the sunny beaches, the rustic lodges, the sea breeze-swept verandas that I might one day visit. And I would picture Mamma, her hair pulled back in to a lose bun, laughing as the ocean lapped at her feet.

I knew that Mamma would never leave us, but maybe she had been in an accident and had forgotten who she was, forgotten about Dad and me. Maybe she had woken up in her car and, not knowing who she was, had followed the signs to the airport and had gotten on the first plane to someplace warm, to clear her head, to remember.

If that was true, then there was a chance that I would someday find her on a beach. I would show her pictures of her family and remind her of who she had been. It might make her remember who I was and we could be a whole family again, her, Daddy, Grandad and me.

That winter I knew one thing to be sure: as soon as I could, I was going to leave my small town, the sadness, the whispers. I was going to see the world and experience all it had to offer. Life was for the living and I was determined to stay alive.

{ 20 } Prologue Is DONE!

It took a few weeks and over 3,600 words, but the prologue to my newest novel is DONE!

True to my word, I will be publishing it it here. Just give me a few more days to iron out the kinks and fix the spelling mistakes and then it's yours for the taking.

It feels great to actually have (kind of) finished something!

WATCH THIS SPACE for more info! Huzzah!

{ 19 } "Are You Dead?"

I get this question a lot. I haven't posted a writing blog since September of '10, for goodness sake. No wonder everyone thinks I'm dead. To make matters even worse, I haven't been on Facebook since November! I guess I would think I was dead, too.

But, since I'm writing in the first person, I must not be dead (or, before I died, I programmed a robot that could emulate me perfectly). Actually, I went from working out of town overnight to working in town at the crack of dawn. Apparently my creativity flows best while drinking at 7 a.m., something I'm no longer able to do... Sigh...

Per usual, however, my little dancing creativity man has reared his beautiful head, propelling me in to a new project.

You might be now asking yourself: "What happened to the old projects, Little Miss Scatter Brain?" Well, let me give you the rundown, much like in my last post...

- Working on HOS? Still, not lately. It's in my brain, but that hasn't changed since, oh, 1998.

- Working on that YA novel? I've kicked around a few words here and there, but I've seemed to have lost the narrative. I'm at Point A, and I know where Point B is, but getting there is HELL.

- Getting the self-published project off the ground? If I could actually find things in my office, this would be a done deal. Since I last discussed it in March '10, nothing has changed except the death of the guinea pig (R.I.P, Matty Piginoink, Jan. '07 - Feb. '11). It's still a giant storage unit, but now with 50% less animal poop and 300% more VHS tapes!

- Any new "Dave" episodes? Yeah, right. Keep the dream alive.

- Examiner.com? Wasn't that paying you? I've learned that there is a fine line between "paying" me and "promising" to pay me. Yes, I'm still writing for them, but not with the frequency I once was. Yes, I still enjoy it. No, I have not seen a dime. Blarg.

- For the love of Christ, B! What have you been doing, creativity-wise? Very little, as of recent. Art is HARD, dammit!

Let me tell, you however, about the way my creativity works, chemically. It reaches into your brain chemically, and then it locates your happiest memory chemically, then it locks onto that emotion and freezes it chemically, and then it keeps you happy, happy. ... Wait, wait. That's Gleemonex, not my creativity.

Here's what my creativity actually does: it forces me to get up five minutes after I go to bed, jot down 65 words, then go to sleep only to wake up the next morning to spin them in to 2500 words. It's pretty cool/creepy, and it totally happened last week.

Basically I wrote 85% of a prologue to a new book. It's good. It's really, really good. It's so damn good that when I get the prologue to 100%, I'm going to post it. And you will all cheer. Keep your eyes open.

More later, True Believers.

{ 18 } I'm A (Kind Of) Paid Writer!

Run down:

- Working on HOS? Not lately.
- Working on that YA novel? Uh, it's been a few.
- Getting the self-published project off the ground? Not so much.
- Any New "Dave" episodes? No, but I think he's still a trucker...
- Are you doing ANYTHING worthy of your writer title?!? YES!

That's right, people. Meet you new Fort Collins Vegetarian Restaurant Examiner on examiner.com! I get to eat out and then write about it. It's like I died and went to meatless Heaven!

Here's my first article: FoCo's Snooze is good, but sleeping might be better

I am pretty much the coolest person you know. More updates to come! Now read the article and subscribe so I can stop fretting about not having any subscribers!