Key Change

Admittedly, I've let this blog fall by the wayside, proving once and for all that our brains are no longer expanding and that attention spans are not what they used to be.

Okay, maybe it's my own brain that is no longer expanding and my own attention span that has dwindled. Certainly Dean Everest Oakland never had this kind of problem; he was so in the moment that he didn't have a future, which explains the final chapter (you'll see). But then his was a world of three years ago, and a lot has happened since then. A lot.

I sit now and listen to Miles Davis' Kind of Blue, a veritable document of the mid-20th century jazz--a how-to of jazz composition. Just a perfect expression--a brooding wonderful, crisp, mellow, smoky record that I return to again and again to reference something deep down inside. I always find it, too, and that's a comfort.

If I have learned nothing else these past 12 months it's that you cannot live in some past, that you must continue forward. All books see the light of times at some point, and at some point they're committed to someone's memory. Even now, as I recall a vague sense of accomplishment in having completed not one but three manuscripts, I can finally, after all this time, move on to another project, start something new. It's my new life. I'm finally living it.

Dryline Rhapsody was written down so that I would remember it. I have gone back to re-read parts of it, trying to capture something. I've gone back again to rework scenes, to make it perfect. In that time, books have changed. I've changed. People have come and gone from this world. Things ended, things began. I may never write anything like this manuscript again, and I don't mind that. It was without a doubt the darkest chapter of my life, and isn't it lovely to walk in the sunshine again?

I count my blessings every morning these days. I'll return to writing but with the guided intensity necessary to create the literary fire I know I possess. I ain't talking about teenage vampires or gay wizards; we're too deep for that folly.

As I write this, my arms tire. It's been a long time since I typed this fast. But I am ahead of my thoughts. I'll wait for you.

**Project update**

Making a sweet potato pie on Thanksgiving--because we all should at some point in our lives, and mine actually kicks ass.

Peace.

T.A.M.

Exhuming McCarthy

What is this "socialist" bullshit all about, really? I'm struggling with this one.

In a recent article, Florida Republican Party Chairman Jim Greer has said that he was "appalled that taxpayer dollars are being used to spread President Obama's socialist ideology." Huh? Really? Is that the same or at least similar to the taxpayer dollars spent spreading fascist ideologies, as per the previous administration? Where is this anger coming from, really?

I guess I'm struggling with this because it just sounds so desperate. It's blather from a political party on life support. I mean, seriously: How has education ever been about socialism? It really doesn't make any sense.

If you believe that Governor Palin wished to step down from state politics for a larger stage for the sake of "saving America," from a "socialist agenda", you're sad and in the way. It was all for the money and these so-called "family values"--my friends, this didn't work in '91 so what the hell makes these people think it's going to work now? Does any of this surprise anyone?

The United States of America dodged some pretty amazing bullets when we elected Obama and not McCain. There have been eight years of abuse and corruption--let's call it a decade--and it's going to take more than nine months to undo this mess and right the ship of state. All these other distractions--these embarrassing townhall meetings with people barking about medicare (which is pretty socialistic system, it must be admitted), all this horseshit about who's a socialist, who's a foreigner (the President), and how America is apocalyptic (thanks, Cheney)--are just fodder from and for the Right. These people aren't serious about this country and its ideals. These people don't care about you. These people have never read the Constitution or the Bill of Rights. These people are racists gasping for air. It's a sad place sometimes, America. And it's a shame that pharmaceutical companies have a pill for optimism.

Indeed, Jesus would never turn away a leper. So, how can these people cling so tightly to their bibles and tell us that we're wrong?

I don't know, man. Forty years ago this past August a great American celebration at once ushered in and destroyed an era. Woodstock was the beginning and the end because Altamont and the 70s followed. It was over. No one had any money back then; no one had credit cards. No one took risks. And then it became the 80s, and they started exhuming McCarthy.

**Project update**

Finished the next draft of MILFord (stage play) and have started on another. Getting these things in the mail for the agent in NY. He'll be singing for his supper soon enough.

Peace.

T.A.M.

Another Year; Things Burn

Well, another year. Like a fine wine, it ages and maybe, like a fine book, becomes that much more relevant as time passes by.

Writing an effective novel manuscript takes time. There's editing, rewrites, re-edits, etc. Scrutiny, etc. Life, etc. You polish the thing as best you can; you've been close to it and have come to know it well. It trusts you. You trust yourself. Then you're finished. This is when the work starts.

Dryline Rhapsody was originally titled The Great Unknowns. A weak title, to be sure, but at the time I wasn't really concerning myself too much with titles. I was writing a novel, not a title. It wasn't until months into it that I changed the title, and the story followed like an oft-barked-at dog.

In the time since its writing, I've gone on to work on several other projects. And, indeed, I've gone back over some of the chapters and made adjustments to the story. But for the most part--and this is what I'm proud of most--the novel's integrity has remained. It is, for all intensive purposes, a first draft.

If you believe people like Kerouac and Ginsberg, there really is only one draft, that a first draft is the purest form of a story, etc. I don't think this is necessarily true. I think pieces of a novel are rewritten where needed; if a first draft works, then it works. I'm told Hemingway labored over page after page of his books to get the prose he was reaching for. Surely this must've been the case with Capote in his Other Voices, Other Rooms masterpiece. Each line is so perfect it had to have been rewritten several times.

Writing is a lifestyle. It's a way of inwardly reviewing and reordering the world. I've tried my hand at different genres and because of my penchant for perfection, I think I've settled on contemporary fiction as a place with which I'm most comfortable. Dryline is a very immediate book. It was written furiously and represented a tremendous journey of my life. There was no other way of telling it because I lived much of it. It's not a boring book--not in the least. In fact, it's very exciting.

Because let's face it. There have been many novels produced over the past 20 or so years that are just terrible. I've relied on the classics to see me through (and by 'classic' I'm talking about the likes of McCarthy, Ford, Kennedy, etc) and will likely continue to do so.

**Project update**

Life continues, writing continues.

Peace.

T.A.M.

Found Money

I've always been romanced by the idea of found money. I used it in North of Here as a motivator for the 2nd and 3rd acts. Everything is lost for a time but it seems money is lost the least and when it is found, it's wonderfully terrible.

Take the scene in Fargo when Carl (Steve Buscimi), all shot up and bloody, limps from the car in the broad daylight to the ragged fence and proceeds to bury the satchel of money. He looks up and down the road looking for some sort of marker so that he'll be able to relocate the money. But it's about as barren as the upper Midwest can be, and totally whited-out with snow. Chances are he never found the money again.

"Found money" is probably as old as time. It's buried treasure--totally romantic, ill-gotten, luxuriously pre-owned (and not in the BMW and Lexus sense). There's that inherent danger associated with it: is it blood money? Someone's life savings? Someone's bad luck? Can it be spent?

I've never had the opportunity to stumble upon lost money; the closest thing I came to that sort of sensation was coming upon someone's potted marijuana plants on a tree-covered and well-camoflauged plateau above the Connecticut River. We ran through there pulling the man-tall plants out of the bags in which they were settled and barreled like hell down the hill to safely. Suffice to say we were fairly well set up for the rest of the summer into the fall. This was in the early 80s.

I wonder what it's like to come upon some briefcase full of cash? Everything would probably become very serious and very dangerous. Most of us don't live looking over our shoulders. The older one gets the less attractive the night becomes. Yes.

Truly, these days it seems Americans are limited in their opportunities (though this doesn't stop some from totally screwing others out of fortunes) so is it any wonder that most people if given the opportunity would squander a fortunes than actually use it. Maybe that explains the whole lottery mentality; how many more weekend millionaires this year will barrel through their luck on the luxuries of the absurd? I don't know. Too many. Who the hell needs a 747 anyway?

Then, of course, there's the whole Ponzi thing. I have to admit that I don't feel sorry in the least for Madoff, his wife, or his kids. Strange how the story has fallen off. And there's his wife--a woman who will likely live on the court-allowed stipend of about $100k/year. Not bad for an accessory after the fact; not too shabby for a thief's wife.

But it was someone's bloodwork, and likely stolen, is probably what I'd be thinking if I happened upon some kind of loot some gloomy afternoon. These days, though, it seems more likely someone will come across a bunch of cash in some hollow in the woods.

I went to the mountains once, maddeningly, to the top of Southern California where I looked down on the rest of this mess. There, I thought, one could steal away. As I pulled off at a turn around and took in the cool, thin air of the mountains, I thought I saw something tucked away amid a bunch of tumbled rock. I looked around: the silence of the mountains, late afternoon. I took a few steps toward the object then stopped: here they would never find me again. Here I would be missed.

I quickly turned around and drove back down the mountain to continue my life. I certainly can't tell you what was the object was; found money?

**Project update**

Burying treasure.

Peace.

T.A.M.

I'll Take a Beer Summit, Thanks

I wish I could have a beer at the White House but no sooner do I mention this than some jackass on CNN runs a poll that suggests beer drinkers aren't really in the President's demographic. Is this any surprise? Have you seen a beer commercial lately?

Wine drinkers, on the other hand, apparently approve of the leader of the free world; it's somewhere around 53%. Wine comes from, among other places, New York and California. (You could include that rotgut that you find in the Midwest but I wouldn't call that stuff wine.) No, these NYers and Californians are laid back types from laid back blue states. And they say wine drinkers tend to be intellectuals who can savor the ease with which they imbibe. Beer drinkers--if you believe what you see on TV--are desperate white males in the late 20s who ogle the genuinely breasted blonde as she drafts a brew, all the while rhapsodizing some sort of coy message that only drunks can understand and appreciate. So much for the species.

Pete Coors would probably sit at that table. Hell, Samuel Adams probably urinated in the nearby bushes when his cousin was running the show a couple of hundred years ago; Spuds McKenzie likely would've shamed us into believe she was a he (and she did).

Wine drinkers, on the other hand, would be fickle and distracted by the setting and the moment. They would probably over-philosophize and carry on about white collar concerns or the arts; they might think they actually belong there. Beer drinkers, well, a few pints or steins in, would probably want a bowl of pretzels but I suppose it would depend on the beer. Senator Voinovich would probably have a few things to say about this, considering his recent observation.

But leave it to the great President Obama to open up the White House--a place that is off limits, even to Shaq. ah, well. Can't knock him for trying. The President would probably do the same if it were me, big fella. It was once the people's house (sounds socialistic, doesn't it?) where ordinary citizens could go to air out their grievances in front of the president. Now it's by invitation only. So who the hell invited W?

Beer Summit and race relations. I don't blame President Obama for diffusing this one. It's what he does. The media will back off now and we can get on with getting on. There's still a lot to do, what with the job loss, the herculean debt, health care, and the rest of the mess left behind by the last administration.

Health care. I really do hope it goes down this time. I don't know how it's going to be paid or by whom. And I do not believe that it's socialized anymore than the US Postal Service, the VA, or Social Security. Watch this rhetoric continue to grow maddeningly as we get closer to November.

As for Citizen Palin, it's gonna be very interesting to see what this moose knuckle does over the next couple of years. Mark my word: she will run, she will be totally made over, she will be completely scripted, and she'll fall flat on her face. This fear mongering over socialism is so amazingly antiquated that it's almost a joy to listen to morons like her ramble on about it.

So, raise you glasses. The man is working in Washington. You might not like it now but it's gonna work.

**Project update**

Headed to the supermarket for a six pack of Americana.

Peace.

T.A.M.

The Ghost of Many Whales

So here's an intriguing idea for a comatose industry, one that's dear to many writers' hearts. It probably won't tell you anything that you haven't already heard but it's interesting nevertheless.

First book authors are their own foils it seems. Makes you wonder why we do this but I know all too well why I continue down this road--continue even as I fall asleep trying to work on a project, literally nodding at my laptop. And it's not because what I'm talking about is so uninteresting and non-stimulation. It's just exhaustion because the world, goddamnit, is tiring.

All writing has rules. Stories have plots, they've got to string along a certain way or heaven forbid! the idiot sub-agent or associate editor won't get it because they're all conditioned to respond to some sort of Harry Potter or horny vampire story. (I wrote half of a horny vampire novel years ago and pitched it to an agent who said something to the effect of, "Is it on par with Anne Rice? People want Anne Rice." To which I replied, "It's better than Anne Rice because I'm a better writer than Anne Rice, damnit!" The agent didn't sign me.) So if you come at them with something that hints at literary, then duck under the desk, the heartless, gutless pussies.

Well, anyway, that's not how I write. I once read part of this monumental Tom Clancy book with which I struggled mightily because it was such crap and so boring that I just couldn't finish it. Robert Ludlum's early stuff, however, was fun--something I've thought since first looking at that stuff in high school. After Parsifal Mosaic he kind of loses me, though. It's good storytelling but the writing was what it was.

This is all low-brow critique, isn't it? I mean, does anyone really sit down to read cover-to-cover Sons and Lovers or Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man? Maybe, though unlikely. I haven't read either of these in years and I doubt I shall complete again; I've always relied on the weather to dictate the terms of my reading: Berlin Stories in the late fall; Revolutionary Road in the summer, along with On the Road and A Passage to India. Currently I'm enjoying The Rest of the Earth, an outstanding literary western by William Haywood Henderson. I heartily recommend this novel--shades of Faulkner and McCarthy.

But why the hell does a beach book have to be an excuse to be distracted? I read Empire of the Sun and Absalom! Absalom! whilst soaking up the rays one summer; these days I don't really hit the beach; I value my skin and anyway it's gonna be sunny tomorrow because this is California...

Dostoevsky and Tolstoy work well over the winter. In the spring I suppose you could divulge in Howards End and Rabbit, Run. Those are very "green" seeming books, all rich in language and heavy on story. They release you from winter. Try it out.

So what about Dryline Rhapsody and North of Here? The former was mostly written over a summer and fall, with a hiatus in the early winter and finally completed some mid February a few years ago. The latter has been written and rewritten over the period of many years that I'm not sure exactly when it was penned but the story is certainly is something for the winter since it's set in northern New Hampshire over a November-December time period. And it's a dark subject. I would recommend either one for the beach.

In fact, I would recommend Moby-Dick if, for no other reason than to remind readers that the novel is the greatest written in the English language and that the ghost of many whales haunts the waters over which the wind blows. And wouldn't you know the chapters are around five pages each?

**Project update**

Focusing and outlining. I'm happiest when I'm at work.

Peace.

T.A.M.

Hush; Could That Be a Deer - Part II

Peace, like a lake. Gentle lapping of the shore. The great forged rock thrusts skyward to form the rest of the mountain. Clouds drift by distantly, shading the calm surface at intervals.

Charred remains of someone's lakeside camp. Hacked lengths of wood now softened from the burning are summer cool in a fading light. It was someone's camp by someone's lake. The rest of it was the mountain's. I sat by the water on a ledge and watched the lake fill with the colors of the afternoon.

One's journey never really begins or ends at some alpine lake rather continues from there to the rest of one's days or until it's forgotten. In the thin-air silence of the mountain's time-passing is not noticeable in our terms; we can see the jagged edge of rock or gnarled bark of a hearty mountain pine to guess that it's a place of long times. Yes, and the watermark from past replenishing tells of levels invisible or momentary.

I haven't seen these places in more than 20 years but I would often revisit them in my memories and, subsequently, in my writing.

It's always been very important to me, identifying with New England. Maybe this is because it is going away. In North of Here, I was creating a small town experience that I'd never had (this despite being from a small place); I took a certain amount of liberty and stretched the truths a little but what you see there is more or less what happened--if only in my mind.

But I've been away for a long time. Even if I were to return to that place, I'm fairly certain that it simply couldn't be the same. So I write about it instead. North of Here is a wintertime novel; for me all of New England is wintertime. There is something about the cold, wintry windswept commons at dusk that evoke a certain drama. I'll never shake it.

Or is it simply because I was there during that wonderful, confusing, simple time of life--youth, late adolescence--that I keep looking back for answers? It was, after all, a time and a place before all this, during which that small place called Chesterfield was shamelessly attached to a past better suited now for old photographs; a whitewashed clapboard-sided church on some gentle rise. It's iconic, and I've known these places so well.

I write New England. Even Dryline Rhapsody wove the parts of the story back to the places I had once known. I haven't seen the New Hampshire in the summertime since then (three or so years ago) but it was more or less everything I remembered.

That muse, whatever it was, drifted off somewhere. I look for it still. All writers seek to create a perfect or even imperfect world in their writing. We seek to recreate experience and add to what we might've known or wish we could know. I don't know that I'll specifically write about the place in earnest again but I do know that whatever it is about the place continues to backdrop my stories.

**Project update**

Marketing, marketing, marketing. Waiting to see what happens.

Peace.

T.A.M.