Well hello there

For no apparent reason, today I decided to see if this blog still exists. It just so happens my last post was 10 years ago today. 

Whoa. 

It also strikes me that one of my last posts was about not drinking for several weeks being some sort of accomplishment. 

Eleven years later, I still haven't touched a drop.  

Edy's

In college we shared a studio apartment on Channing in Berkeley, taking turns sleeping in the closet. At night we would go to Edy's on Shattuck and eat burgers and these totally addicting shakes, the kind with fudgemud at the bottom of the glass. Then we would stay up late strumming guitars and talking about whatever.

"Life is futile," was my friend's mantra. I thought it was because he still hadn't gotten over his first girlfriend. He was a smart guy... straight A's in high school, all-conference in football, even got into Cal. Things would turn around. And yet, they never did. Eventually he sort of detached himself from everyone I knew, and went away.

Over the years I've wondered about him, even thought about looking him up. But I've heard things, and I have a feeling it wouldn't be a good idea.

On the wagon

As of yesterday, it's been four weeks since I've had a drink. I'm just slightly proud of that, and I'm still trying to figure out why.

There are several reasons why I've stopped drinking.

1. One of my parents was a brutal alcoholic.
2. Prove to myself I could stop.
3. I hate the gut.
4. When I drink, I treat the rest of my family like shit and separate from them. (I didn't realize how bad this was until I stopped.)
5. Insomnia. (Didn't realize how bad this one was, either.)
6. Lack of energy/motivation.

Those are a few. Since I've stopped drinking, I've been more productive at work and my level of physical strength and drive has doubled.

The one drawback? I'm having trouble staying motivated when it comes to fiction. I keep thinking of all the stuff that my family needs me to do. However, I'm committed to fixing this. I've gotten too far to stop. 

I didn't make any big announcement about not drinking. But most of my friends and family have figured it out by what I consume and don't consume in their presence.

It was interesting to discover at least one major urge for drinking. I really didn't think I had any -- until the day that I learned I may have to travel to a conference for work, which is something I really, really hate to do. I don't mind traveling for fun, but traveling for work, being away from my family, and having to dress up in a suit is just horrible.

As feelings of dread washed over me, that's the craving hit, badly, right in my gut.

Was I, or am I an alcoholic? I'm not sure. I haven't had any sort of withdrawal that I can think of. But of the reasons listed above, the top one and number four are the biggest. And I never want to be in the position of being asked or forced to stop.

I remember as a kid having to call the police when shit would go down at home. As a parent now myself, I've never personally flown so far off the handle. But I've had thoughts, and that's not a place I want to go.

Checking in

I'm sitting in the driveway right now, thinking about love and how I've been somehow pretty damned blessed in that department. I've always gotten a lot more love than I've been capable of dishing out. I don't know why this is. I think I'm one of those guys, or people, who just can't give away the whole store. Like it could crush me, or do something much worse than that.

It's totally stupid, of course. The truth is that I love some people more than they could ever imagine. I'm just too chicken to show it.

(Actually, this is not 100% true. I have a good friend, actually one of my best friends, who a while back gave me a big-ass bear hug. He sensed I needed it, and I did. We do this every time we see each other now. It's like food.)

I'm still working a lot. Income is looking good, but I'm under too much pressure for this not to be the case. I keep thinking about what would happen if something happened to me. A lot of people are counting on me. The fear is incredible, but I can't let that show.

Actually, this sort of thing got me back to running, biking and the gym. Any guy my age would be ecstatic to have my genes. I have a full head of hair, very little gray and still get carded at bars. I know different, though. I don't feel 21 at all. I knew I had to start taking better care of myself.

The sad part about all this is that I have so little energy left to create art. All my creative writing is on hold. That's just the way it is right now, I guess. Having no energy means I'm too tired beat myself up over it.

A little love for Dee Dee

I wish I could always say it was you, Dee Dee. But I confess: You were not my first favorite Ramone.

When I first saw Rock 'n Roll High School in my teens, I was fascinated by Joey. The ultimate outsider, he looked exactly like I felt.

When I began playing guitar, it was Johnny. Nobody would ever look cooler or more dangerous with a guitar in his hands.

But eventually, reason settled in. How could you not be everyone's favorite Ramone? You named the band, you wrote my favorite songs, you were the most punk. Sid Vicious looked up to you.

You also had the cajones to turn from punk to rap--even though, as you later acknowledged, "I'm not a Negro."

Some of my favorite lyrics:

This is Dee Dee King on the mic
A hundred and fifty pounds of dynamite

She don't do the wash, don't do the cookin
She don't have to cuz she's good lookin'.

I want to ride the surf, at ninety miles an hour.
Hope you don't get, get, sour.

I was sitting there, thinking of a caper
But no new rhymes appeared on the paper.

And my personal favorite:

I seen it all, I had a ball
Someone should make a Dee Dee doll.

I'm poking fun, but in all honesty, I love Dee Dee's first solo album, Standing in the Spotlight. There's nothing quite like it. There's some true corn, but a few decent riffs and a ton of sincerity.

Take "Baby Doll." On one hand, it's overproduced schlock. On the other, Dee Dee's singing is heartfelt and genuine.



They really should make a Dee Dee doll. Oh wait, they did.

Ready set fail!

I have no illusions that I'll achieve everything I want to. There's not enough time.

So here it is, the stuff I intend to fail at in 2012. Mostly because there's so much of it, and I need something to post.

1. Reunite with my band in Texas and attempt to pull off an actual, live guitar solo.

2. Finish the goddamn novel. By finish, I mean get all the edits done and get it out there, self publishing if necessary.

3. Finish a second novel. Can this be done? Absolutely not. This is just goofy. If I finish Resolution #2, it will have taken three years for the first novel. But hey, dreaming is free. Just ask Blondie.



4. Get a bigger house.

5. Be able to call my own shots in my professional "straight" life. I'm actually pretty close to this.

6. Learn Spanish. This one's been sitting on the list so long it's starting to rust.

7. Get healthier. That's all I'll say, lest I incriminate myself. Look, I'm not getting any younger. It's about time to put some old habits to bed, dust off the Jack LaLanne juicer and get started on the mid-life, run-every-day health kick -- or at least something approaching it.

8. Get smarter. America is getting dumber and instinctively, I know I am, too. Basically, this boils down to hanging around people smarter than me, reading more, and watching less Family Guy.

This one's a little personal. Eighteen years later, I'm still trying to live down this faux pas:


(For the record, I can't say what kind of state I was in when I gave this quote to a Newsweek intern. But HE certainly knew.)

9. See more bands. Gotta have at least one easy resolution.

10. Meet more writers. I'm lucky to know a few great ones, but I ought to be branching out more. In fact I ought to write more, too, and submit more, and go to more readings...

And see, this is where I have to end the list, because there's always "more." I need to travel, write non-fiction, get my business off the ground, fix up the jeep, fix up the back bathroom. Blah dee-dee blah blah blah.

Just more stuff to fail at. But when it's all over, I expect I'll do better than I thought I would, which is pretty much how things go with me. And that's OK.

Introducing the Sampler Plate

I've been aching for something meaningful to post for two months now, but I got nuthin'. Life has been reduced to novel revisions and work that actually pays. I have no complaints, except to say that everything is progressing much slower than I'd like.

What I do have is a bunch of unfinished blog posts. So in the interests of getting something up, I'm introducing The Sampler Plate.

RANT: One of my pet peeves has to do with panhandlers. But it's not the panhandlers themselves -- it's the people who complain about them.

First off, nobody I know -- and I mean nobody -- has been approached for spare change more than me. It has a lot to do with the kinds of places I frequent and the wandering, lost puppy dog look that I do little to hide. I'm not going to fine tune this argument except to say that I don't want to live in a society where strangers are not able to ask each other for money, or cigarettes, or whatever, and unless you live in downtown New York, I could not care less that your humdrum trip to Safeway or Starbucks was demolished by some poor soul with his hand out. Please find a constructive use for your ire, stay home, or move someplace where the the fascists have already won.

MUSIC: Five hot "new" albums I'm listening to for working purposes:

Venom - Black Metal
This three piece keeps the riffs simple and the focus where it belongs: Death, Satan and Hell.



Os Mutantes - Os Mutantes
Brazilian psychedelia that will move your brain in funny ways.

Steve Earle - Guitar Town
Avoided this guy for years because he was country. What a dope I was.

Sparks - Kimono My House
Such a fun album. Pre-Angst in my Pants, the brothers Mael were far more progressive, experimental and interesting.

The Pretty Things - S.F. Sorrow
An early concept album based on a very depressing short story that, according to some, influenced Pete Townsend to write "Tommy." Probably the most unique thing I've ever heard.

CONFESSION: I choke on my spit, a lot. Just did it again.

SHOUT OUT: To my good buddy Sean Craven, who is getting some well-deserved attention for his writing, art, and spoken word performances. Surely the world is ill-prepared for the Oaf, but the Oaf approacheth nonetheless. Read Sean's story, "Deep Blue Dreams," appearing in the Future Lovecraft anthology available for preorder in printed form here or available now via Kindle here.

Revising by hand

So I finally finished writing the sucker. It took over a month just to do the last chapter, but it's done. But revisions... aye yi yi.

I have no idea how revise my work. I mean, I've read about it, and I have experience revising and editing countless newspaper and magazine articles that I wrote. But when it comes to an entire novel, I don't know what'll work best for me. I spent a lot of time on each chapter in an effort to nail things on the first bite and avoid a lengthy revision process. And on the whole it received positive reviews in my writer's group, so I'm hesitant to make too many changes to it.

But I have to do something with it, this I know. And I know myself, too. If I see a snag in the yarn, I could start unwinding the whole damn sweater. And I want to avoid entire rewrites if at all possible.

So I came up with an strategy that I think will fit my particular working style, and I'm gonna see if it works. I got the whole dang thing together and shrunk the text, eliminated the double spaces, and left a wide column on the right side of every page. I printed it out, using one side of the paper only. Then I bought a three-ring hole punch (can't seem to locate the old one) and a cheap binder.

The idea is to do line edits by pen, and use the right side column to make any extra notations or replacement text, and the backside of each page, if needed. And I'll just carry around the binder until I'm done. It's a little crazy, but considering I wrote almost the entire first draft by hand before typing it up, I figure there's no sense jumping off the ink-and-paper train now.

My only fear is that the novel is rather short, at least compared to what I understand is the recommended length for first time novelists. After researching the lengths of some other famous novels, I found it's still longer than both Fahrenheit 451 and Slaughterhouse Five, so I don't feel too bad about it. What I care most about is how it fits together as a whole.

Then again, the primary goal behind writing the novel was to simply see if I could do it. In the process, I learned how. Ain't no different with revisions, I guess.

Bye bye Borders

I'm sure some folks are happy that Borders is probably closing after "what they did" to local bookstores. But I think the departure of any bookstore is sad, and I liked Borders better than most because they had a larger inventory, were more comfortable to browse in, and had coffee and reading events for kids. And the truth is quite a few Borders, Barnes and Noble and Books-A-Million stores went into smaller markets there was little or no competition to begin with.

But it's now about economics, technology and market demand. And I'm partly to blame. I didn't think I'd be in this position, but I'm growing fond of ebooks, and there are millions like me and growing. I still love books and hanging out in bookstores--all kinds of them, but the bigger the better--but the fact is there is bound to be less of 'em. Obviously I'm a bit at odds over this. I'm fully aware that my grandkids could pick up a book one day and say, "What is this thing?" then proceed to give me funny looks when I say, "Well, uh, it's a book, you see, you take the page here and turn it..."

Wrapping things up

I'm struggling with the last chapter of the novel. The main trouble is trying to maintain a consistent voice from beginning to end. I know I've strayed and might not nail it on the first shot. I think that's OK.

Concurrently I'm reading a book on writing fiction that is heavy on examples, including full short stories, and writing exercises. I've read it before for a creative writing class. I want to finish it before I start revising, then go through the entire thing and ask myself whether I'm providing the right details. It will be interesting see how my first instincts play out.

I'm of the belief that fiction -- and all art -- should communicate first. And yet, it's such a weird thing writing a novel. Internally you run up against all sorts of crazy stuff -- motivation, ambition, memory, etc. -- that is all a bit mysterious.

Do shyness and fiction mix?

Yesterday The Times had an great article on the benefits of being shy.

I've often thought that being shy is a huge disadvantage for the fiction writer. I say that knowing that writers in general are considered to be a shy sort. But particularly with regards to fiction, it seems that if you have limited experience getting to know people and finding out what makes them tick -- in real life, not through words -- you're going to have a harder time creating vivid characters with details and motivations that ring true.

(I myself have always been an introvert that was sort of lured out of his shell through journalism, alcohol, and a curiosity about other people -- particularly folks who don't fit a particular mold. I like to think I have both things going for me. But in day to day living, the results are not always pretty. I often feel conflicted in social situations and can go either way, often to my own surprise or disappointment.)

The above article (which actually has nothing to do with writing; this is my personal tangent) made me rethink my view, for reasons that seem to be totally obvious. The advantages of being an introvert -- heightened observation skills, imagination and painstaking consideration of possible outcomes -- are critical to fiction. But can they eclipse what the writer is not able to gather through direct interaction and experience? I'm still not sure.

I heart failing fast

I've struggled quite a bit with the transition from writing non-fiction to fiction. But what made it easier is that, having spent 10 years in daily journalism, I have a invaluable and fairly transferable set of writing tools.

One of them is the strategy of "failing fast." You find this adage in business and it applies well to writing, too. It's not a new concept in literary fiction, in fact, but that's not where I learned it.

As a reporter on deadline, I didn't get writer's block. I couldn't. I simply had to come up with words and fast, and whether they were in the same key or not was something to worry about later. My individual strength, however, was being an extremely fast writer, even for a journalist. I could and often did write 15-inch breaking news stories in ten minutes or less. Not Pulitzer stuff, mind you. But the basic story was there.

This had several advantages. By writing a less-than-stellar rough draft, I was able to see very quickly what elements I was working with and what parts were missing. If I wrote my first draft fast enough, there was a good chance I had would have time to make that extra call to get the final detail or confirmation I needed.

The second advantage of this strategy was that it got me thinking about the story, whether I was initially in the mood to do so or not. Once I had something on the page, even if it was a bunch of poo, and especially if it was a bunch of poo, I couldn't turn away. It had to be fixed.

Which is tied to the third advantage: It is much easier to fix an existing draft than to start with a blank page. It's getting the hard work out of the way -- the content, i.e. the who what where when why how.

I'm not surprised to be running into this concept in fiction. Without even realizing it, this is how I approached the novel. Looking at each chapter as its own story, I found myself getting the words down first (usually by hand, which I often did as a reporter in the field), then refining it until I thought it was good enough for my writing group.

I realize some writers can lay down an entire first draft of a novel straight through, beginning to end, before tackling revisions. I don't ever see this being an option for me; with full time work and five kids, breaking things up was way more practical.

So too has been the failing fast strategy. For folks like me, there ain't no time to fail slow.

Practicing journalism or law?

Today I got caught up to speed with the drama surrounding the Medill Innocence Project, the Northwestern University-based program that, over the past dozen years, used the work of journalism students to exonerate 10 or so death row inmates who were unjustly convicted of their crimes.

It seems David Protess, who headed the program, was essentially kicked out of the university because he allegedly altered the text of an email that hid the fact that his students were cooperating with defense attorneys in the cases they worked on.

Actually, Protess officially "resigned" -- although that may be a loose definition given the circumstances. In fact the New York Times this morning had a nice wrapup on the shady mess.

The title of this post has been a question others have been asking of J-schools regarding this case. I think it's an appropriate question.

I had already left the newspaper industry for the first time to work for a niche online publisher when Protess and the Innocence Project starting getting national attention -- and attaining a sort of celebrity status in the journalism industry. But I was still captivated by what they were doing. Like many others, I went into journalism with a sense of purpose and to do some good. But saving lives? That's pretty huge.

Although Protess' fate seems to have more to do with university politics than anything else, the Times article suggests that the success of the Innocence Project -- some tie the elimination of Illinois' death row to its work -- may have led to some overstepping of journalistic bounds, which essentially stripped the students from protection under Illinois' shield laws for journalists. And by handing over their notes to defense attorneys (as well as professional journalists), it actually does sound like the students were practicing law more than they were practicing journalism, particularly since they weren't even writing their own stories.

All of which isn't really so bad, given the results -- unless this mess actually impacts those results. Here's hoping that won't happen.

Oscars, stunt people and Yakima Canutt

I'll start off with a confession: My first dream job was "lumberjack." I don't know why, but the thought of climbing giant trees with sharp objects sounded appealing... and very manly. Tuff, as my inner Ponyboy would say.

That lasted about a year. But my second dream job, "daredevil," lasted much longer. Between the ages of 7 and 12, I was so obsessed with Evil Knievel and movie stuntmen that I would do stuff like jump out of trees in homemade parachutes and swing around on flagpole ropes (and breaking my foot in the process).

Another favorite trick was getting into a cardboard box with a bunch of pillows and having my little sister push me down a full flight of hardwood stairs -- or off the porch railing, a full one-story drop. Ah, good times.

Anyway, when I read this morning that movie stuntmen are lobbying for their own Academy Award (to be handed out before the actual ceremony), I thought, well, of course they should get one. It's about time. In fact, its a bit of a shame that 100 years of movie stunts -- the vast majority performed without the benefits of modern photography or computer effects -- will go unnoticed.

Researching great movie stunts online, however, I was happy to see that one pioneer got an honorary Academy for his contribution to the field. And to think I had hardly heard of ol' Yakima, although I have seen him in action:



A casual observer might argue that the Oscar ceremony is already too long to keep adding awards to it. Who cares? I hardly ever watch it myself. To me, it's a simple case of giving credit where it's due.

'Gay Girl,' a modern day 'Jimmy's World'

Once upon a time, noting a rise in niche bloggers who had carved out a unique identity and legions of fans online, I toyed with the idea of creating a fictional blog that sounded real.

Actually I did less than toy with the idea -- I thought about it for about 10 seconds. Then I shoved it to the back of my mind under, "Stuff I'll never have time for." And there it stayed.

Today I read about the "Gay Girl in Damascus" hoax. The whole story is fascinating, yet one that I have little time for on Monday morning. But what was most interesting is how, before blogger Tom MacMcaster revealed himself -- and even after doubts had been case that his creation, Amina Abdullah (or "Abdallah"), wasn't real, respected news media organizations accepted Tom's blog as truth.

Reported CBS News on June 8:

"Author of the internationally acclaimed blog "A Gay Girl in Damascus", Amina Abdullah, has been abducted and possibly jailed by what family members believe to be security forces of the Syrian government or agents of the Baath Party militia.

Abdullah has received attention worldwide for her bravery and resolve in the face of death..."

That was the lede. In fairness, a hint that there was some trouble with the veracity of Amina's story was in the story, but not until the very end.

No such hint in this Time Magazine piece written before "Amina's" reported "abduction":

"Inspiring the Syrian protest movement is an honest and reflective voice of the revolution: a half-American citizen journalist who, in illustrating her country's plight, risks death herself..."

Nor in this Al Jazeera piece:

"A female blogger has been abducted by armed men in the Syrian capital, Damascus, relatives and activists say..."

No, just the blog said. Whatever happened to making a few calls to check out something you found online?

Again, not a lot of time for such stuff this morning. But this story either proves that certain highly regarded news outlets are lazier than I ever expected, or that good writing can fool anybody. Probably both are true.

PS, I'd link the quotes above but I have a feeling they'll be dead by noon. Here they are anyway:

http://www.cbsnews.com/8301-504943_162-20070103-10391715.html

http://newsfeed.time.com/2011/05/10/a-gay-girl-in-damascus-lesbian-blogger-becomes-syrian-hero/#ixzz1PAO7Pk2c

http://english.aljazeera.net/news/middleeast/2011/06/2011671229558865.html

Palin emails, media bias, and Monday morning quarterbacking

So I woke up this morning to find this article from the Guardian, which prompted a major gut check on my part:

Release of Sarah Palin emails angers US conservatives/Rightwingers accuse media of vendetta against possible Republican nominee and ask why Obama was not targeted too

Reading it, I felt myself starting to turn a corner on the whole media-biased-against-Palin argument.

Before today, I didn't give this issue any thought. I thought journalists were simply digging hard into someone whose political ambition far exceeded her level of competence, and who had a little dirt up her sleeve. Now I'm not so sure.

First, I do think the effort to secure Palin's emails as governor was important, and here's why.

Compared to previous major party vice presidential candidates, most voters knew nothing about Sarah Palin when John McCain plucked her out of obscurity. Of course, many voters didn't know much about Barack Obama, either. (I'll admit that. I knew he was a Democratic Senator who gave a great speech at the 2004 Democratic Convention, but that's about it.) Yet Obama had far more political experience than Palin, who spent most of her political career serving a town of 6,000 people.

So no one knew Palin. Then stuff began surfacing about her that sounded illegal, unethical, or just plain wacky (i.e. Troopergate, using public funds for personal expenses, flip-flopping on the Bridge to Nowhere, shooting critters from the sky, banning books, using private emails for state business, etc.). So all things considered, the media had ample reason to dig in.

OK, but... What did they find? So far, not a whole lot. Nothing truly horrendous, at least, nor anything that Palin herself can't or won't effectively play down with folksy talk and half-truths. In fact the only major thing we've learned from all her emails is that she distrusts the media.

Of course she would, you say. But hers is not just the view of the average politician. More people every year feel the same.

In fact, most "mainstream" news sources in the U.S. – both newspapers and network and cable TV news – are facing trust issues. The number of Americans who have a favorable opinion of network TV news and major national papers have steadily eroded between 1985 and 2007, according to the Pew Research Center. Audience and readership numbers are falling, too.

The reasons may have been valid. But by going after Palin's emails and no one else's – and not just filing open records requests, but engaging attorneys, fighting for three years for the release of her emails, setting up special Twitter accounts to broadcast the findings, hiring additional reporters, and encouraging Americans to join in on the fun – well, that either means the news media has it in for Sarah Palin, or they just see her as a meal ticket. Either way, it seems biased.

And barring the discovery of something truly evil in her emails, the whole effort appears to be working in Palin’s favor by hardening her support base and making the news media look like Geraldo and The Mystery of Al Capone's Vaults.

The other thing bugging me is my personal belief that Sarah Palin would make a horrible president. So did I secretly want her emails to contain some major nasties? Yeah. And I'm still waiting to see what's in the 2,000 or emails currently being withheld for “executive privilege." I don't think that's a fight that should be given up, either.

But as things stand, I don't think the news media is going to come out of this looking very good. Everyone's getting plenty of eyeballs on this story, sure. But I think it would done greater good to do the same digging into every presidential and vice-presidential candidate -- Obama, McCain and Biden. Expensive? Absolutely. Impractical? Probably. But not impossible. And such a strategy would have both dismantled the appearance of bias and increased the chances of finding something newsworthy about the three other candidates.

So how is the news media handling the criticism that they're biased toward Palin? Here's Mike Oreskes, AP’s senior managing editor for national news:

“Palin is one of many officeholders whose public record and leadership the AP has sought to illuminate by obtaining emails, memos and other documents … She's maintained a sizable profile in the current political scene and may run for president. We are pressing to obtain the records of other presidential contenders in the months ahead.”

Sounds a bit hollow to me. Um, where are Biden's emails? Plus Palin isn't even an officeholder anymore.

(Man, I better watch it. I'm going to start sounding like one of them.)

Anyway I think Charles Mahtesian, Politico's national politics editor, was a bit more frank on the issue in The New York Times:

“I think there’s some truth in what the critics on the right say about a double standard for Sarah Palin ... Having said that, she is an incredibly compelling character. And anything she says or does will have a bearing on the 2012 presidential election cycle. So it’s a pretty easy call as a news story.”

And there you have it, I suppose. The eyeballs win.

Turn down the sun, I'm trying to write

I've always thought there was a correlation between temperature and my writing production. I thought I can't be the only one. But when I went to look it up, the first thing I found was this, from WiseGeek:

"According to at least one study, office temperature does influence worker productivity. A study at Cornell University found that office workers in a warm environment are more productive than they are in colder spaces..."

No, no, no! You've got it all wrong! Warmer temperatures equals LESS productivity! Idiots!

I don't know about you, but I can't write or perform any strenuous mental activity when I'm too hot. So when the summer hits, everything from my regular job, my creative output, my energy level, dips. Worse, my sleeping time -- what little there is to begin with -- crashes.

How warm is too warm? In my case, it's anything higher than 72 degrees Fahrenheit. Pathetic, right? Yeah, I know.

The odd thing is, summer was always my favorite season, by far. At least it used to be, when I didn't have school or kids or a full-time job, and I was in shape and could go skating, surfing and hooping for 12 hours a day. But that was the hyper, more physical Lutz of the past; today the majority of my pursuits are related to thinking. And I dont know what it is, but I have trouble thinking, let alone writing, when I'm too warm. Which I don't point out as an excuse, but as a plea, to the ether, for empathy.

Oh, here's some: This article from AbsoluteWrite, while not 100 percent relevant to my predicament, offers some advice. In the meantime, you can find me with my head in the refrigerator, watching Pengu cartoons on my Droid.

Fear, failure and f*cking wastes of time

Yesterday I picked up Janet Burroway's book, "Writing Fiction: A Guide to Narrative Craft," which I understand is something of a staple in creative writing courses. I used to have another copy of it somewhere, or maybe I loaned it out and forgot about it, I don't know. I think I'm on my third copy. But it was worth buying again.

It's a dense book -- not physically, but thick with information and examples. You can tell a huge amount of effort and thought went into it. It's not easy reading. Anyway, I cracked it open again and ran into this bit from an extended quote about fear, from author Dorothy Allison:

"...The best fiction comes from the place where the terror hides, the edge of our worst stuff. I believe, absolutely, that if you do not break out in sweat of fear when you write, then you have not gone far enough..."

This made me think of something Scott Kempner of The Dictators said in "Please Kill Me, The Uncensored Oral History of Punk." Kempner was talking about The Stooges and being "psychically wounded" watching Iggy Pop perform:

"...Iggy put life and limb into every show. I saw him bloody every single show. Every single show involved actual fucking blood.

"From then on, rock & roll could never be anything less to me. Whatever I did -- whether I was writing, or playing -- there was blood on the pages, there was blood on the strings, because anything less than that was just bullshit, and a waste of fucking time."

As I was thinking about these things, I was reminded how -- a bit of knowledge I picked up from my straight gig -- most small businesses fail. I don't know what the exact stats are, but the vast majority do no better than break even. Yet among the over 100s of CEOs and small business owners I've talked to over the years, most seem to have a practical outlook toward failure that I think writers could learn from.

I suppose it depends what your idea of failure is, of course. But I'd much rather fail than create something that was "just bullshit." Because my worst fear is doing exactly that.

What the hell is an ebook?

I have ebooks on the brain pretty bad. I hardly thought about them six months ago, but now I can't stop thinking about them. (I just did a search of my blog to see if I've even mentioned them before and came up empty. Talk about being out of it.)

Anyway, are they good or bad? I don't know -- but something pretty amazing is happening and it could either be the best or worst time to be writing a novel. I am, however, seriously considering publishing Denny as an ebook, and not the least of the reasons is financial.

For a long time I wanted to write a novel to say I could. (To me, it always said something about somebody who could write a novel, though I've never been able to pinpoint what that something was.) That was part of the reason anyway -- when I started writing, I wasn't even thinking about getting an agent or getting approval bestowed upon me from some publishing house in New York. I saw friends struggle with these sorts of challenges, and I was still busy writing, so I filed them away in the back of my mind as necessary yuckies to deal with later. Who writes a fiction novel for money, anyway? I knew before starting out that my changes of being published were slim.

But nearing the end of my journey (sans rewrites), I looked out and saw colossal shift has taken place. Amateurs are selling hundreds of thousands of ebooks; professionals are selling millions. (Hatchette Book Group just announced today that James Patterson has tripled his ebook sales in less than a year.) While I haven't figured it all out, apparently the revenue cut for the author is a lot better on Amazon than with most publishers. And when you've got five kids and you're running yourself ragged with multiple jobs to make the bills, the thought of actually getting paid for your art is -- well, it'd make my wife feel a lot better about me going off to my writing group every week, for starters.

Again, I'm just starting to figure it all out. Which is a little frustrating, because I feel as though I'm way behind the curve on this one. But then, I've been busy writing. And no matter what happens, I can't stop doing that.

From One Story comes ten

Next to music, the short story has to be the most perfect art form ever to exist. So I'm naturally drawn to any top ten list, if for no other reason than to find an unearthed jewel -- or rediscover an old one.

Last week, One Story came out with a Top 10 Short Stories of All Time for Flavorwire, which I just had time to look at. The One Story blog has a "long list" of other stories considered, along with comments from readers. (Turns out I wasn't the only one to find the absence of anything by Hemingway a little strange. Even on the long list? Really?)

Most of my favorites weren't mentioned; "Sonny's Blues" and "The Things They Carried" stand out here. But it was nice to see Denis Johnson's "Emergency" on the Top 10. I just heard Tobias Wolff read it on a past New Yorker fiction podcast recently. Still odd, funny, and totally mesmerizing.

One of the things I'm very interested in is what makes a short story's value last through generations of future readers and writers. While it's helplessly subjective on one or more levels, One Story's list does nothing but boost my intrigue -- well, that and give me more stories to check out.

The new DWW - Read It or Beat It

So I'm up to 50,000 words in the novel I'm writing. (I would call it my "first novel" but it could also be my last, so I'll wait until there's a second.) It's close enough to being done that I've decided to take a look at this blog, which in theory could become some kind of landing place for anybody curious enough to find me after reading something I wrote.

I was surprised to find Dead Wall Window is -- WOW -- five freakin' years old, which, I don't know why, just seems like forever to me. A ton of stuff has changed in my life during that time. Most importantly, I have two more children, Sonny and Declan. A laugh-riot, those two. I also got out journalism when the getting was still good, and through a few odd turns, managed to successfully transition to a new career making better money. I'm kinda proud of that. And I joined a writer's group, which is the key reason why I have a nearly completed novel and writing this here post today.

But the main thing I realized upon reviewing this blog -- or rather, could feel -- was the solemn frustration and aimlessness behind most of my posts.

Frankly, this blog never really had a point. It was entirely an impulse, a place where I could record odd memories and thoughts about stuff that caught my interest, and occassionally stretch my writing muscles. The expectations were extremely low. It was an outlet. I didn't think anybody would read it or even find it. I didn't even tell my closest friends. And as I kept reading, I could sort of see why.

Many of the posts represented some achy, vague grievance that I was trying to put my finger on. In retrospect I think these posts were extremely helpful to me on a personal level, and were well worth expressing. But to the outsider, they couldn't have been much fun to read (I'm speaking generally; I know some folks read things and liked 'em -- and I thank ye kindly) and I sort of knew it at the time I wrote them, due to the amount of apologizing I did for "whining." All of which seems silly now. One writes to be read. If I didn't want people to waste their time, I should have bought a diary.

And so anyway, I started asking myself: What impression does this blog leave folks who don't know me? And should I care? Up until now, Dead Wall Window read like what it is, and what I initially decribed it as -- "a writer's toilet." And a very self-obsessed toilet, at that. It struck me that this is no way for a writer trying to reach a broader audience to work. I should aspire to something more. Frankly, I better.

So I began thinking about changing the look and tone of this blog. I even mulled starting all over. But then I thought of the past five years and all the stuff that's happened ... and I realized that this blog might have its own story to tell. At the very least, something my kids could point at and say, "See, I told you Dad was a sicko."

So I'm sticking with DWW. And I'm committed to (and I'm going to say it out loud, so hopefully it sticks) posting more, putting myself out there more, sharing insights about writing and publishing (to the degree I'm comfortable doing so), and maybe -- god forbid -- serve as a source of information or guidepost for somebody. The frustrations will still be here, I'm sure. But it's time to kick it up a notch.

I want to fly like an eagle, to the sea

This is a whiny post, so please forgive me or ignore it...

I guess it was bound to happen. Today I looked in the mirror and decided, I'm old. Not in grandpa old. But old in the sense that, well, I just don't look the same. To me.

Which is weird because I always felt I looked younger than I was. People told me this for years, in fact. I still get carded about once in a while. And those carnival folks who think they can guess your age within five years? They're never, ever close with me.

But I've come to the decision--ME--that I am not a young person anymore. You know, it's easy to kind of fool yourself into thinking you're not much different than you were in high school. You look at yourself in the mirror day after day, year after year, and you don't see the changes build up. It's self-delusional, perhaps, but effective -- thinking that you're not getting older really helps when you're trying to start something new.

Well now I'm looking in the mirror and I see someone totally different. A sea change, even if I'm the only purpose who notices. And it's tied into the fact that I've missed any chance to play professional sports, become a movie star or sell millions of records -- not that I ever had a chance at these things anyway, but now I KNOW I can't do them because I'm too damn old. I'm even kinda old to be starting a career as a novelist. OK, not really, I guess... But most of 'em seem to have started earlier than than I am.

About the only new careers I'd be young at is politics or bathroom attendant. Don't know what more to say about that.

Anyway I'm 43 years old and I have a full head of hair and three gray hairs -- not counting the ones in my beard, which purposefully hides my small chin and keeps me (I hoped) from looking younger than I really am. But now my head and face is fatter and my eyes are noticeably heavier. The crows feet have grown into crows legs. And there are new lines and dryness on my face where neither existed before. The whites of my eyes will never be totally white again.

Physically, I've felt older than my face for some time. Remember those days where you could just, you know, break into a full sprint at the drop of a hat? Totally fucking gone.

Which is probably the saddest part of this whole state of affairs, especially for a guy. Losing the ability to make a break for it.

Fool with books

I don't read just one book at a time. I have several going on at once. Right now it's Plan B, In Our Time, and In the Name of the World. This is not including Portnoy's Complaint and The Art of War, which are on my Droid Kindle. I downloaded those several months ago now in a fit of ambition. But reading on a phone, well... I should have known.

I have a hard time finishing books once I start them, but I usually do, eventually. This might seem odd for a writer, but I'm not only a writer, I'm too many other things, and the truth is I don't have many opportunities to sit down for more than an hour and focus on one thing. My life and mental energy is scattered and shared between multiple jobs, responsibilities, and the logistics of parenting five children, including driving them to and from two different schools during the day, helping them with homework, taking them to do stuff, feeding them, etc.

Not a complaint, just reality. But it causes me to get several reads going and then to misplace them. One may be in the bathroom, the other by the side of my bed, the third in my backpack. Or they may all be in my backpack. Or one might be in my car, another down the side of the bed, and the third hidden under the toddler's Thomas the Tank Engine train table.

As a result I do not always have the book I want to read right in front of me. This is frustrating. But if I just have SOMETHING to read in front of me when I want to read, I'm OK. The important thing, I tell myself, is that I keep reading. It's true I'm probably cheating myself of the full value of digesting a single book in a week's time, which used to be normal for me. But it's better than nothing.

An ode to Concord

Yesterday I started off taking a walk around the block and, feeling sort of ambitious, kept on walking -- past BART, under the Highway 4 overpass and toward Port Chicago, where I turned along one of the business park roads.

This is an odd area of Concord and primo scenic grist for the novel. There's a transit bus yard, a public golf course, a homeless shelter, biomedical buildings, sign makers, carpet cleaners, pest control companies, a reservoir, a refinery, and a cemetery. Just a wonderful part of the world, if you ask me, and I'm only being partly sarcastic.

Last week my buddy Sean came up with the concept of "Concord Noir." Concord certainly is unique. It has the mostly blue collar, service economy of the exurbs like Antioch, but it's uncomfortably close to places where people really want to live, like Walnut Creek, Pleasant Hill and to an extent, Lafayette.

I came here almost seven years ago, after my ex-wife left me and moved here from Fairfield, where I had been working as a newspaper reporter. I didn't know anything about Concord except how crazy it was. For one thing, nothing fits. All the main roads through town bend, creating a patchwork of neighborhood grids that never quite line up. You're always looking toward Mt. Diablo to get your bearings.

It's also a retail heaven, or hell. Besides Sun Valley Mall, I think it has or had just about every chain store you can think of, or at least the ones I could whittle away time in: Half Price Books, Guitar Center, Best Buy, Tower Records, Rasputins, 99 Ranch, CompUSA, Fry's, etc. There is also a Chuck E. Cheese and The Jungle for the kids, and tons of Mexican restaurants for me. Also giving Concord its everything-but-the-kitchen sink feel is a mothballed Naval weapons station, an airport, Costco, the Sleep Train Pavillion, THREE bowling alleys, a real drive-in movie theater that doubles as a flea market and frequent site of random gunfire, and a creek that winds through town to the bay with a growing number of tents along its banks.

Concord is, incidentally, the land of regrettable tattoos. It also has the kind of bars I like -- ones with "normal" folks but also with bikers, losers and women of questionable intent. The novel was a short story born from a daydream, but it was in these places, like Vinny's, The Office, and Scores, where I made it into something else, downing beers and scratching away in notebooks in an increasingly indecipherable manner.

It's true I have aspirations to live somewhere else. The reasons are purely economic. If I'm able to buy property again, I will choose a neighborhood that is more in demand, probably cleaner, and has better schools for my kids, where the property values didn't crash as bad as they did in Concord. I have no illusions about "keeping it real" and staying put, nor am I in love with my city. But from an creative standpoint, it's been pretty good to me.

Panama Red's

Here's the problem with this blog, in a nutshell: I can't write a single decent post.

I look at other writers' blogs and see a professional level of critical thinking, opinion and insight. I look at mine and think, wow, what a waste.

I have tons of excuses for my shitty blog, not the least of which is the fact that I'm a breeder with a bunch of kids, I work full time, I like to get loaded, and I have the constant noise of kiddie shows, video games and leaking tempers droning on all day in my tiny, depressing little house. Every single one of obstacles is nobody's fault but mine.

The result is a shitty blog, reflective of a life drenched in chaos.

Here's what happens: I get a great idea -- something short and sweet, a witty opinion, or a video or book that crossed my paty. I get the inclination to post so the few kind readers who find their way to this site get to know I'm still alive and capable of original thought. But whatever I think of, I can't get it down just right. For example, I can't write about how the Ramones are the personification of rock and roll, because after I think about it for a while, I realize there are tons of other bands I haven't listened to. Who am I to judge?

Or if I stick with my original idea, I have to edit it. And edit it. And edit it. The post gets longer and unweildy. When I read it over, I grimace. I look at my clock; I could be working on the article I'm ghostwriting for some CEO, and making money. So what happens? I give up.

What I do manage to post barely merits a shrug, or I was too drunk to care when I hit "Publish." I ain't really proud of any of it. And I guess what bugs me about that is that well, hell, someday someone might read what I wrote in Swill or someplace else, go here, and think, "This guy's a joke."

That didn't bother me when I started this blog (and self-defeatedly labeled it a "toilet"), but I suppose I should sort of give a shit now or simply delete the whole damn thing. Why? Because I really don't want to ghost write articles for CEOs for a living. I want to be taken seriously as a writer. And a few things--just a few--have happened over the past two years to make me thing that it's slightly, miniscule-ishly possible.

Yet, just right now, I've gotten three IMs, two from co-workers and one from my boss. The cruelty of it all! So I give up, again. At least for today.

FYI, the best coffee shop in downtown Concord is Panama Red's. Good Americanos, lots of table space and electrical outlets, free Wi-fi, books, games... not even close.

Chester Himes

Reading If He Hollers Let Him Go and wondering why they didn't add this to the books I read in high school.

I've probably said it before but I love Chester Himes' writing, especially in his Harlem detective novels (though I've only managed to read three). I can't stand scenes that are overdone; details ought to count. Himes usually nails it.

The broken concrete paving was strewn with broken glass bottles, rags and diverse objects thrown from the back windows: a rusty bed spring, a cotton mattress with a big hole burnt in the middle, several worn-out automobile tires, the half-dried carcass of a black cat with its left foot missing and its eyes eaten out by rats.
- The Real Cool Killers

Resolved

I know they're corny, but I'm all for new year's resolutions. There's a ton of shit I want to change in my life, things that aren't happening for me the way I want them to. There's a lot of self-hatred, a lot of missed opportunities. Way too much frustration and anger, more than I ever show to friends. A lot of sadness and fear that I'm not going to live to be an old man. At least not the way I've been living.

There's been times over the past several months where I thought I needed to talk to someone. A "professional." But deep down, I know it's about making smarter decisions, mostly about everything. I'm just not making enough of them.

I spent the morning on New Year's Day seeing an old friend I hadn't seen in about 12 years, even though he lives right across the bay. (Thanks, Mark Zuckerberg.) It was good to see my friend hadn't changed all that much, really at all. He's the same caring, thoughtful, honest dude he always was. I think beyond all the crazy resolutions I'm going after in 2011, I need to hang on to the good, thoughtful, honest people in my life, and try to be one myself.

Sort of like a flu shot for depression

It happens every Christmas without fail: After unwrapping presents, one of the kids figures out his or her load is smaller than everyone else's, and the tears start to flow. Even though you emptied your checking account and stayed up half the night wrapping presents, you do a quick comparison and realize the kid is right; there is an imbalance.

The ensuing depression is contagious. No matter the reason, if your kids are crying on Christmas, you feel like a failure.

This year, however, as it all began to unravel, I wasn't all that fazed. I didn't even reach for a drink. Before the big day, I had tried something different: I consumed a steady stream of Saint Vitus and Charles Bukowski. And while I'm not exactly sure why, that did the trick.

Can you believe this shit?

It's really hard to write about my mom without making her sound like some crazy roommate from hell. For one thing, she's a great liar. Not because she's a believable liar, but because she refuses to throw in the towel.

After she kicked my dad out, my mom really took control of the house. My sister and I could always stay there. We just couldn't use the stove. Or the microwave. Or the toaster oven, the washer, the dryer, or the garage door. Basically anything with moving parts. Personally I think it was her way of kicking us out and keeping us from moving back in. This way, she could spend her days undisturbed and in her bedroom, surrounded by People magazines, throwing back Tostino's pizza rolls, and watching Montel with the ferocity of a heroin addict.

Anyway, because Mom had no idea how to fix stuff and was too stubborn to ask my dad to come over to help, most of the appliances we were forbidden to use eventually broke down. Yet she had a hard time facing this fact.

The kicker came when the sewage line broke and Mom's, ahem, collective fecal output began erupting into the backyard. Fortunately I was gone by then. But when I came back, saw it, and tried to inform her, she refused to acknowledge it.

"Look," I said, having dragged her down to the back porch. "It's spewing shit."

Below us, little burps came from a pond of smooth, greenish-chocolate mud. Sprinkled on its surface, like coconut flakes, were tiny bits of toilet paper. A cloud of bugs circled and landed, as if we were watching the world's tiniest, busiest airport.

"No it's not," Mom said. "I don't see anything."

She turned back toward the house, shaking her head and pointing at me.

"You're seeing things," she added, holding up the bottom of her bathrobe as she climbed the top stair. "I think you need to lay off the sauce."

From the corner of her mouth I caught the edge of a sly grin. Then Mom quickly shut the back door, as if I wouldn't be able to hear her laugh.

Gray skies

I used to love hot weather. I sweat a lot, and when it was hot I could sort of resign myself to this, not worry about it, and then go play basketball for three hours. But now, in my 40s, the heat bugs the shit out of me.

I can't focus. Thoughts and plans reel off inside my head. It's like flipping through the pages of an art book and not being able to stop. The best remedy is cold beer, but with kids and work, drinking during the day is pretty much out of the question.

Hope came today with the overcast skies. I have no idea whether such weather is healthy or not, but it sure feels like it. Whatever it is, the condensation, cool air hitting my throat -- I feel as though my body is getting what it needs.

In my 20s, an overcast morning usually meant perfect surfing conditions: warm water, glassy waves, even if the waves were smallish. It meant hot coffee, reading the newspaper outside, and smoking Camels. It meant being at ease with myself, even if I was in debt and not getting laid. That stuff could be fixed. I had time.

Man, I wish that feeling would come back. It won't, but at least the gray has.