Hell and Wheels

Sometimes it seems all we’re doing is sitting on this planet, waiting as it spins. Whether we’re waiting to become its next crop of fertilizer, or if we’re waiting for some other, greater, reward, at times it feels like we’re only here long enough to eventually be forgotten. Only the great can make their mark. Only the powerful or the truly gifted can rise from the masses and etch themselves on the face of history. Only the elite, the seemingly pre-chosen few, can alter the course of others’ lives. And those people know who they are, and by the time we reach a certain age, most of us realize we’re not one of them.

I thought about this yesterday while sitting in the memorial service for a friend’s ninety-nine year-old grandmother. As one-by-one the mourners stood to say their goodbyes to this seemingly ordinary woman, it became evident she had forever reshaped numerous lives with her mere presence. The Big People in the world like to say that it is they who make the largest difference, that it is they who mold the face of this world. They’re probably right. Still, many times the more important — the more deeply felt — change comes from those around us, from the ones striving to make their own life a better one. Whether its a parent determined to give their child what they never had, or a spouse desperate for a marriage to work when their own parents’ before them failed, it’s these alterations in the fabric of our existence that add up to a far greater whole than the history books can ever relate. The reverberations of these private efforts are the ones that hit us the hardest, that make us in turn want to place our own stamp during the short time allotted us on this twirling globe.

So, we spin, wait, and work. Even if we’re not consciously aware of it, we are indeed working to better this life we’re given, to improve the quality of the fate that’s been handed us. Sometimes we succeed. Sometimes we don’t. But it’s in trying that we shape ourselves, and others. I saw proof of this yesterday in the kind, wrinkled face of a bespectacled woman in a hazy photograph. I heard it in the quavering recollection of a motherless young woman raised and nurtured by her already aged grandmother. I felt it in the sadness hanging in the air around me, in the deafening silence of a roomful of people’s acknowledgment that a changing force had departed this earth for good. It was a humbling experience.

Yesterday reminded me that in my rush to take on the world, I need to remember everything is relative, and it won’t be the American definition for success that will make my life worth recalling when I’m gone, but rather the smaller, less widely noticed of my actions. After all, nothing is eternal. And what’s the worth of going down in the temporal pages of human legend if all of those who could actually remember me as a person couldn’t put their heads together and come up with one good thing to say?

I thought writing a book was tough. Well, it is, but nowhere near as difficult as writing the pitch package. I like to pretend I’m an interesting person with the ability to communicate very well with others via the written word, but if that’s the case, why can’t I figure out how to compose an engaging query letter than will make an agent less inclined to chuck the entire packet in the trash after the first six words? And why, oh why, can’t I manage to summarize my book in a way that takes up less space than the original manuscript?

It must all hearken back to grade school when we learned how to outline. Or, I should say, how the others learned to outline and I learned how to write numbered and lettered paragraphs. It’s true. I had (and am finding out I still have) the rampant inability to pick out the key facts even in my own work. I start out with the best intentions. I have a partially formed, hazy, single sentence hovering in my head, perfectly embodying the contents of the entire chapter. As soon as I try to put it on paper, though, my hand (or hands if typing), go into overdrive, flinging paragraphs onto the page while part of me is saying, “Stop! Stop! You’re doing it wrong!” while the other part screams, “But it’s all important!”

As my frustration with this new phase of my writing career grows, so does the nasty little idea that I’m somehow in over my head. But, if I take a step back and think about it, it’s the exact same feeling I had when I started writing the book, too. Once I get a handle on how to do this, it’ll be easier for me next time — just like with the novel (I’m hoping, at least; it’s not really a proven theory at this point). This is simply something new, and new things always take a while to work out. To be honest, the only time I’ve ever truly been in over my head (and it was way, way over my head) was when math was put in front of me. And this isn’t math. It’s a couple of letters, a few numbers and maybe a bullet point, or two.

I think I’ll view this experience as taking a hike up a long, difficult hill. Not in that cheesy, inspirational poster sense, but in the sense that it will suck the entire time I’m doing it, but, when its behind me and the aches and pains are gone, my brain will have managed to convince me that I had fun.

It’s funny how the universe works. I ask, “Should I be doing this now? Should I still be trying to get this book together? Or, should I give up this dream and find more gainful employment?” I sacrifice the requisite number of goats, and — with all the bravado of one who clearly knows nothing about the universe’s sense of humor — I clear my throat, push out my chest and say, “Give me a sign.”

The engine goes up in the Explorer.

The interesting thing about signs is they’re hard to read — both when one is a half-blind octogenarian attempting to drive down a one-way street and — as is the point in this case — when one is expecting to hear an answer from The Beyond. See, most people would assume that little trick meant I was clearly barking up the wrong totem pole. They’d argue that the high cost of replacing said auto, or its pricey broken bits and pieces, would clearly require one to abandon all hope. They’d tell me the gods are obviously frowning down upon this household — on one member in particular — and that I should remedy the situation immediately. For a moment, I kind of thought that too. For a brief, sweaty-panicked instant, I could even hear those gods’ voices in my brain.

“Donneth thy visor and get thee to McDonalds!”

Yeah. Maybe not.

But, the universe was indeed telling me something. “Get going,” would be the polite way to put it. “Stop fucking around,” would probably be more accurate. In the light of this I’ve done what any other normal, cowering peasant would in the face of an angered mass of imagined, yet feasome, gods — I did what I was told.

The short story — entitled Toothless, for the curious among you — was electronically submitted to the Writer’s Digest competition after about a hundred heart-pounding re-reads. Committing to actually pushing the ‘send’ button was probably one of the most difficult things I’ve done so far — the simple act of sitting at this desk and clicking the mouse suddenly turned me into the guy in the bunker getting ready to turn the red key. Happily, though, I survived, and am well enough to finish off and submit to magazines the second short story in the queue. But, the best of all is that Resonance is done. Yep. I actually mean it this time. I’ve turned my back on the endless parade of revisions and am now working on getting the plot outline and synopsis written. By the end of May, I’ll have had the first round of queries out to agents.

I suppose it takes a kick in the ass now and again to keep us on track. It gets easy at times to fall into complacency, to become comfortable saying, “I’m a writer,” while spending half of the day surfing the net, watching the cats sleep and taking trips to the refrigerator. The world outside is scary — and I remember it well. That big, ugly mess beyond the safety of my front door is what drove me here in the first place. But, in here there is nothing for me but the promise of an eventual cobwebby, cat-gnawed corpse propped in a no-longer new desk chair, desiccated fingers still clutching the mouse because they weren’t given anything more substantial to hold onto. Here seems safe because there are no goals to worry about failing to achieve. Yet, here sucks because there are no rewards — unless there’s some random trophy out there for a record number of times in a week a wool rug has been maniacally vacuumed. And the suckiness of Not Being outweighs any perceived safety of that cocooned existence any day.

So, I asked and I received. I said, “Is this right?” And the wise universe gave a roll of its eyes and an irritated snort, and then said, “For the last time, yes. Now hurry up or I’ll break something else.”

The car should be fixed by the end of today. We might have been able to swing car payments again. But, I like it that my old friend will be coming home. Others might look at my late-model, blue Ford Explorer with the dented hood and see just another of a hundred thousand exactly like it that have cruised the highways in the past eight years. I’ll look at it and know that beneath the fading paint and the slightly rusted ding rests a shiny new engine — an engine that signifies not a new start, but an extension of a beginning already granted, an engine that will now take it farther than it thought it could ever go.

I’m in a much more grounded place than when I wrote my last post. I apologize for dragging back into the light the thoughts of others that would have been better left in the dark from which they were spawned.

Part of my new mood is due to the total kick-assedness of Grindhouse. Rose McGowan was awesome in Planet Terror, but my admiration goes to (big surprise) Quentin Tarantino, who managed to take a girls-get-revenge movie and make it spectacular. The dialogue wasn’t as strong as it was in Pulp Fiction or Kill Bill. There were even some semi-funny/trying-too-hard references to Pulp Fiction thrown in. And, as usual, Tarantino’s cameos were hammy and cheesy (and probably any other breakfast sandwich reference one can come up with). Still, Kurt Russell pulled off the psychotic serial killer role with amazing ease, and the twist on his character at the end was perfect. Tarantino deftly split the movie into two separate stories, bound only by the thread of Kurt Russell and his Death Proof car, neatly dividing the film between the sad tale of the victims and the story of unflinching heroes who refused to be killed.

I can’t even explain just how much fun the whole experience was, with the flickering sound of movie reels, distressed film, funny-as-hell ‘previews’ (the pilgrim serial killer in Plymouth on “Thanksgiving” was hilarious). You just have to go see it.

But, the real reason for the elevation of my spirit comes from a more unlikely place — Steve Jobs, via his commencement speech for Stanford University grads in 2005. It kept me on track, reaffirmed the correctness of my decision to be here, doing this, just when outside events tried to shake me off.

I hope it gives the rest of you the same lift.

Steve Jobs Commencement Speech

Some of you know of my misadventures in joining a certain writing organization. For those of you who don’t, here’s a brief, non-name-calling overview: I joined under one set of rules, said set of rules changed mid-game, there was much celebrating as me and many others hit the bricks.

All of this fun and excitement happened a year ago, at least. So, why am I now writing about it? Because I have a fun habit of trolling the Internet and finding fun tidbits to read that are the equivalent of taking sharpened bamboo sticks to my fingernail beds. I found a blog of a writer who not only thinks the organization was correct in the handling of this matter, but that he was sorry he missed the ‘fun’ of watching us unworthies shuffled to the door. He imagined with great amusement the gilded halls being cleansed of the class dunces. In his eyes, those of us still in the process of writing novels or getting our short stories out to market weren’t ‘serious’ writers, but parasitic fanboys hanging about hoping Mr. Bestseller would make his spectacular return to their ranks. In this writer’s words, we unpublished were obviously not cut out for the professional writing life simply because we didn’t meet their ridiculous goal of selling one 250 word-count story or (get the relevance in this) a movie review (great job on the legitimacy, guys). Because I had greater sights for my story than a 75,000 word-count and a single viewpoint with zero plot twists, I was nothing. According to him, I guess I still am.

Okay, anger aside — this isn’t about the organization. They’re free to act on whatever spasmodic notion they feel can propel them to the heights enjoyed by other, more respected, organizations. It’s their game, not mine. This goes back to the writers who somehow feel superior because they’ve managed to land a couple of short stories in a magazine. It goes back to those who are supposed to be leaning down from their lofty perches and lending a hand, but are instead gleefully taking their boot heels to the fingers of those who are still struggling to climb. It goes back to the age-old saying:

Why can’t we all just get along?

Oh well. I’ve always said I wasn’t a joiner. I just tend to forget now and again. Things like this only serve to remind me that I do better on my own, anyway.

Can you hear my spurs jangling as I ride off into the sunset?

Fortunately for me, the sunset is also in the direction of the movie theater parking lot, so I can go see Grindhouse.

Blood, guts, and Tarantino. Can’t get a better mood-lift than that.

And, to those who insist on looking down, a message from Bif (kinda dumb video, but the song’s what matters, here):

It all started at dinner at my in-laws. They live forty minutes away from us in a town that makes ours look like New York City. It’s an old waterman community where people are happy to live small lives, spending their days immersed in one another’s business, exhausting themselves to the point that bedtime comes at five-thirty in the evening. My in-laws had moved away from there as teens, but recently decided they missed their siblings and moved back.

While we were having dinner, my mother in-law called her sister who lives down the street and asked her if she and her husband wanted leftovers. An hour later, the husband dropped in to fetch the warming food. He’d just come back from church and was bursting with the news of local vandals who’d tipped over the cemetery’s headstones and disinterred many of the ancient remains, smashing skulls on the rocks and scattering femurs and humeruses, which local dogs picked up and brought home as unwelcome prizes.

Of course, the townsfolk blame the desecration on the residents of the new home for troubled boys, despite the fact those kids are locked down and watched much closer than the longtime street-wandering teens who have zero to do on a weekend night out in the middle of nowhere. No. It couldn’t possibly be Donny’s kid, or Bobby’s. Couldn’t be Ricky’s, or Danny’s kid (yeah, every man’s name does end in a ‘y’). It has to be those out-of-towners. Fortunately, that particular community is devoid of Goths, because they’d be nailed to the nearest wall faster than it would make one’s head spin. No one would listen to the fact that Goths are happy posing for photographs under the looming monoliths (or possibly having sex on the grass above a resting body). It wouldn’t matter to these honest, church-going folk that Goths rarely have zeal enough to go about tipping over headstones, or that destroying the highly regarded denizens of the underground amounts to a mini-sacrilege within the Goth community. It’s always the ones who are obviously different who are to blame — never the one right under their noses.

We were sitting around the living room talking about the headstone tipping and the possible culprits. My in-laws voiced the opinion that it was merely a bunch of bored kids. Then, the bomb dropped. My uncle said something about not understanding why kids would hang out in a graveyard, and my seventy-something, tiny mother-in-law said, “I could tell you something about graveyards.”

It turns out my sweet, loving mother-in-law used to go with a bunch of kids to an ancient, abandoned cemetery and blow up graves. She and her cohorts would find a vault with an ajar lid and dump gasoline down into the chasm below and set a match to it and let the entire mess blow, burning the contents to char.

My mother-in-law.

An ex-amateur arsonist.

I’m still collecting my jaw from the floor.

We meet people and incorporate them into our lives under the title to which we’re introduced. For twelve years she’s acted like my spouse’s mother and for twelve years I’ve viewed her as the woman who gave up many things to raise two really great kids. I let myself be lulled into accepting that relationship as it was presented to me. I let myself forget she had once been young and silly — and apparently a little bit freaky. When the reminder came, it was in the form of a right-hook.

It’s amazing, because I’m painfully aware of the stages of my own life, the evolution of the being that has become the ‘me’ I currently recognize in the mirror. I can point out every part of my existence and understand how that stage affected, and helped form, the next. But, when it comes to other people, I drop the ball. I forget that those in my life haven’t always been what they are now.

One of my mother-in-law’s favorite words is ‘Hellion.’ I think the next time I see her, I’ll ask how she feels her adventures in grave defacing formed who she is today, see if she can recognize that bit of hellion still existing within herself. Because I’m pretty sure I can. Now that I’m done being floored by her confession, I’m really not all that surprised. The woman’s got fire. Spunk. Under that small frame, behind those smiling brown eyes, that hellion is still lurking under the surface, just waiting to spring another one on me.

According to my writing partner, the new, revised ending works much better. I tend to agree, but it was nice to have a little outside validation. I’m setting my sights on the end of April to have the entirety ready for submission to the first round of agents.

I spent the weekend in Philly again. I went to go see Type-O-Negative with S. Not a good show. First, a band called Carfax Abbey opened. I’m a fan of most of Dancing Ferret’s promotions, and I love Dracula’s Ball. But (big, hairy but), I was not in the least impressed with the lead singer of Carfax Abbey. The dude came out with fake blood streaming from his eyes. He proceeded to alternately screech and yell his lyrics while looking like he was so messed up on drugs that he didn’t know where the hell he was. Could’ve been part of the act, but not likely. Those six songs took an eternity. I’ve never before stood at a show and stared at the ceiling for twenty minutes. It was that bad.

Then, another, better band whose name I can’t recall came on. Their same six-song set moved quickly. Then, it was Type O Negative’s turn. For those of you unfamiliar with the band, Peter Steele is the lead singer (see above photo). He has this bass voice that literally shakes your bones. He’s massive — must be seven feet — with long, shaggy hair and deep-set eyes that he historically keeps rolled back in his head while singing. He was at one time known to hang an upright bass around his neck by a chain and play it like a guitar. So, with the knowledge of this Legend in my expectant little mind, I got a little excited when the lights dimmed and the intro began, a recorded track of the Leave it to Beaver song. Funny.

Something, however, wasn’t right. The roadies hadn’t left the stage. The Leave it to Beaver song replayed again. And again. And again. It was on an incessant loop as the roadies swarmed the stage. It was the second night of the tour after a three-year hiatus. There were bound to be some snags. They crossed off songs on the play list, added new ones and then reprogrammed the entire mess. One grizzled veteran of the stage was kind enough to show us his wrinkled butt. People initially shouted, “You suck!” which is the appropriate greeting for Type O Negative. Then, the shouts became more irritated, more ominous. The Leave it to Beaver song was, surprisingly, grating on everyone’s last nerve.

Finally, they got everything set and the show began. Peter came out with a normal bass. I’d heard he’d stopped carting around the upright, so, that was okay. Everyone’s getting old, I guess. He played two songs, and then motioned to a roadie. The roadie brought out a chair, and Peter parked himself behind a music stand, never to be seen again. We were maybe fifteen feet from him, yet couldn’t see anything but the occasional bob of his massive head. He apologized, of course, and said he had a back problem. Having back issues, I have to give him credit for even showing up. Still, it didn’t lessen my disappointment at not seeing the Legend on stage, but just a dude.

The sets went by fast, and they didn’t come out for an encore. It was an anticlimactic ending to a mediocre day. People milled about the floor of the Trocadero as if confused. Some wondered if it was a test to see who the most loyal fans were — those worthy of an encore. But, then the staff told everyone to beat it, and that was that.

It reminded me of the Rob Zombie concert we went to last fall. Rob — who used to have mangled, makeup caked dreads, a fully made-up face and tons of badass costumes — came out with regular rocker-guy clothes and plain, mouse-brown (albeit long) hair. He didn’t hop around the stage like he used to, but did, on occasion, stand on one of the low amps.

That’s one thing I can say about the lead singer of Carfax Abbey, the dork climbed all the way up on one of the big amps. He was right above us and looked as if he wanted to stage dive. S. and I looked at one another, and — in one of those moments that happens with married couples — said simultaneously, “I’m not catching him.”

But, there was no moshing, and I again avoided getting a boot to the head. As I said before, that tilts the odds in favor of it being an overall winning night. I did, however bring back a cold, which I’ll blame on the dude coughing next to me the entire time. I can’t stand being in a public place when someone coughs. Anyone who’s seen the beginning of Outbreak knows why.

So, S. and I messed around Philly for a couple of days and then carted ourselves back to the eastern shore Saturday night. Today, it’s back to work. I’ve got to implement the minor changes suggested by my writing cohort and then finish working my way through the entirety of the text, making a few changes here and there and ensuring my spelling and grammar is as good as it’s going to get. I also have an idea for another short story, so maybe I’ll bang it out by the end of the week.

Before I put fingers to keyboard, I knew this post would be a little unfocused, probably because I am. But, I’ll spare you the reasons why and just move on to the meandering.

I finished the first draft of my potential candidate for the Writer’s Digest competition. I never thought I’d write a vampire story, but I did. I tend to be of the opinion that the vampire angle is generally played out. Whether I put a fresh spin on it or just convinced myself I did is yet to be decided.

My mind kept messing with me today, dredging up childhood memories to put into the story, not letting me let go of the issues dogging my heels. True to my twisted nature, though, I feel those bits made it a more solid story. I’ve discussed this tendency of mine in my other (long out of use) blog on MySpace, and I promised not to repeat content, so, I’ll let that topic slide.

I usually can’t write with music on. I’m one of those people who can do one thing at a time. I can walk and chew gum, but other than that, I’m pretty much useless in the multitasking department. But, today I started playing my I-tunes playlist as I wandered around the house, and couldn’t bring myself to shut it off. So, I wrote with Vast, Sentenced, Poison Black, Tapping the Vein, Depeche Mode and Paradise Lost for company. Yeah, I was in a goth-y mood.

The other thought that’s been plaguing my mind has nothing to do with the above. It has to do with our local news station and their commercial encouraging viewers to snap photos or take video of “news.” They’re actually encouraging idiots to stand in front of someone’s burning house or car accident and take pictures for them! I’ve already expressed my lack of enthusiasm for journalism as a whole, but this goes beyond obnoxious and right into sleazy. I can’t imagine watching my house burn down and see some jackass with a camera phone taking shots of it. And those that would do it? The worst of humanity.

Alright. I’m gonna go have some wine before my pissy mood leaks all over the Internet and causes some sort of massive crash.

Here’s a video for a song that makes me want to break things (more than I already do). It’s Get Your Body Beat, by Combichrist. If you ever get a chance to see them live — DO IT! They’re amazing and the drummers alone will make you feel exhausted just by watching them. I got to see them open for KMFDM at Sonar in Baltimore. That was the night I was almost squashed to death against the barrier (I was stupid enough to be up front) and some fool put his cigarette out on my shoulder. But, a night with no combat boots to the head is always counted as a winner.

I’m a Tarantino fan anyway, but this scene is one of my all-time favorites.

I had a most excellent day today; I finished the re-write of the ending. It’s been a long time coming. How long? I’ve lost track. Please don’t count and tell me because it would harsh my buzz. I’ll just say, “long enough, bordering on too long,” and move on.

As far as moving on goes, the plan is simple; edit and spell check. Repeat. Then, attack agents.

The last time I wrote the ending, I was rushing to get it over with. I was tired of the story and just wanted to head on to phase two. Having some distance from it, I cans see that now. This time, though, I studied the ending and wrote numerous pages of illegible ideas on how to wrap it up. I made index cards and charts. I thought about who had what power and how they could use it. With help from my writing partner, ‘J’ (who is a master of all things fantasy and won’t let me get away with pulling a rabbit — no matter how magical — out of my ass to resolve plot issues), I fine-tuned it even more. And I think I’ve come upon the winning contestant.

My plan is to have the first round of submissions out to agents by the end of May — so I don’t turn another year older without being able to say I’ve finished (and I mean finished) this book (not including the slew of revisions I’ll have to face once I’m accepted. But, that’s a different, distant angst).

I’m now eying the Writer’s Digest short story competition, thinking I might conjure up a little something to give myself a break here and there while editing. Entries are due in mid-May and there’s a $3,000 grand prize along with promised meetings with editors or agents. Not too shabby. And it’s open to genre writers, which is a rarity. The word count is 4,000 words maximum, which equals roughly sixteen pages. That’s a chapter. A sneeze of an effort for a seasoned scribe with a tendency towards wordiness. Minutia, in fact.

You know what would be good? If all of the dark writers out there submitted something. We could saturate their pool with fantasy, horror and paranormal romance and give the vanilla crowd a run for their money.

But, that’s a concern for tomorrow. For the moment, though, I’m going to lean back from my keyboard with the satisfied sigh of one who’s gnawed their way through the eighty-six ounce steak, and enjoy my high.

Excellent.