goin' down mammary lane. . .

B-O-O-B.

That's right. I wrote it, dammit.

And now that that's out of my system, I can discuss more important things, like this blog here that I abandoned the other day.

I miss you, little blog. Damn. I miss not being able to fuck around with font size and colors. I feel squelched by wordpress, in the regard. Don't get me wrong, wordpress saved my butt when Blogger fucked up, excuse  my French, the other day. I was beside myself, so frustrated. And even now, I can't type anything in Blogger on my pc. Just here, on this laptop. Crazy, huh?

But like I said, I liked Blogger when it was working, dammit. And I miss it. And I want it back but some things you can't get back. For whatever reason, they go the way of the dinosaur, or Pluto. Gone, and you don't realize how much you cared for them until you don't have them anymore. That goes for things, and years, relationships. . .

Don't get me started.

Too late, I guess. Once in a while I think about certain relationships I nurtured and/or exploited and/or fucked up. People I thought I was close to, I'm not close to anymore. Mostly my fault. You can't undo what's done. You know what, though? You should be able to, dammit. You should be able to make amends and have all be forgiven. You should be able to hit 'rewind.' Make all the hurt go away. Wake up and all is right with the world, everything's hunky dory. You didn't say that, do that, write that. . . piss him off. Offend her. Fuck it up.

Should. Yeah, right. Says who? Every minute that ticks by is a minute we can't get back, and all we can do is cast our eyes behind us, look wistfully at what was. Meander down mammary lane, remembering the good, trying to forget the bad or swearing we won't fuck up like that again; promising ourselves we'll cherish what we have right now 'cause it can all be gone in a heartbeat, an error in judgment, a lapse of attention. . .

A computer glitch.

But it was nice while it lasted, dammit.

Error on Page

screwing up, take two. . . *WARNING: RANT ALERT, replete with expletives (not right away but just wait, it's coming)* I am typing right now in HTML mode because when I try to type in regular old mode, whatever you call it, nothing happens. Oh, I have a lovely little "Error on page" thingie in the bottom left corner. That may or may not have been a harbinger for this morning's nastiness. . . It all began when I pulled up yesterday's post to fix a small error. The post, btw, was about my soiree into the wonderful world of blog pitching my novel, re: #PitchMAS. I'd written the wrong info relative the submission window. FYI, it was from yesterday at 9 a.m. PST to today at, I believe, 6 p.m. PST. Anyhoo, I tried to change it and all hell broke loose, I somehow deleted the entire post except for Mrs Fringe's comment, she's so sweet, then I tried to retrieve it through various ridiculous means, one of which was totally and completely frustrating, to wit: recovering the file via MozyHome. Which, apparently, I have no fucking clue how to do. . . I do believe I spent over an hour, 1/24 of my precious day, trying everything I could think of to recover the blog. To no avail. Then I had an epiphany. Two words: System Restore. So I set the ol' computer to restore my files to last night at 10:30. Meanwhile, I poured myself a cup of coffee and policed up the house a bit, energized by the knowledge that I would soon be back to square one, raring to go. A minor setback, a slight blip, nothing I couldn't handle. . . *WARNING: Rant starts here* Fuck, fuck, and fuck some more, excuse my French. Not only is yesterday's blog wiped from the face of the earth, but I can not, for the life of me, figure out why I can't type a blog post except in this HTML mode. I have a shiny new message now in the bottom left corner: Done, but with errors on page. How lovely. I can feel myself slipping into hopeless mode. I want to scream and cry at the same time. I'm angry at myself because I fucked something up and I don't know how to fix it and I don't know what I'm doing and I hate it. Yes I do. If anybody out there knows how to fix this, I would surely appreciate your input because at this point in time, I am clueless. I am actually considering hanging it up, aka: FUCK IT, my blogging days are over, I can not bear this, if I can't fix this problem pretty soon, I shall go completely and utterly insane.

word of the day: holy shit. . .

how the hell did that happen?

squeaky wheel. . .

Right now, a certain published author has my manuscript. He's a busy guy--his latest novel came out two days ago and he's just started a book-signing tour. He sent me an email the other day apologizing for the delay in reading the thing. Life's been insane but he'll get it read. Should have plenty of time on the road. . .

The guy's plate is full. Just the thought that he's willing to read something I wrote. . . did I mention he's won the Edgar award?

http://awards.omnimystery.com/mystery-awards-edgars.html 

He's in damn fine company, too. Dennis LeHane, Michael Connelly, Patricia Cornwell, Harlan Coben. Elmore Leonard. Mickey Spillane. Honest to God. Obviously, the man can write. His stuff sells. He's a bonafide NYT best-selling author and here he is, reading my damn book. How the hell did that happen?

I asked him.   

Sometimes I don't believe how ballsy I am. I thank my mom for that. She always told us: Squeaky wheel gets the grease. So when I read on this writer's website that he answers all emails, I thought, You know what? I'm gonna ask him to read my book. So I did, I asked him.

The novel was TWINK. I attached the first chapter, hit 'send' and immediately regretted it. I mean, really? What the hell was I thinking? But he wrote back. Very nice guy. He told me he read the first chapter and yeah, I can write. BUT, he said, people don't generally want to hear what he has to say. He doesn't mince words. He's been on the receiving end of harsh critiques; as a matter of fact, he has a couple of guys who regularly rip his manuscript a new one. They are relentless. They don't hold back. He asked me if I was ready for that, if I could handle that.

Yep, I said.

He was spot on, my God. I wept, then I shoved emotion to the side and started revising the thing. It's a much better novel, thanks to him. I really can't thank him enough.

But I'm incorrigible. When I finished writing CHERRY I thought, I wonder if he'd read it. What the hell, I'll ask. So I did. And damned if the guy didn't say, "Send it."

So I'm waiting. Patiently. Which isn't one of my strong suits but I'm doing it, knowing full well how lucky I am to have a writer of this man's caliber reading something I wrote. When I think about it, I'm thrilled and humbled.

You know what else I am? Proud. Because I started the ball rolling, took a chance. Sometimes you need to do that: step out of your comfort zone, make a little noise. It's a crap shoot, no guarantees.

But sometimes you get lucky. . .

he's so damn endearing. . .

cherry pickin', part DEUX

I knew the type of person Steve McGuire was before I wrote one word of CHERRY. I knew him up, down and sideways, inside and out. How did he get to be so sweet? Considering his history, what he’s endured, how he makes his living, and yet he’s a kind person. In a lot of ways, he remains an innocent. He’s not perfect but he has a good heart and a gentle soul. He’s a sponge trying to soak up everything, learn everything. Maybe because he knows his time is running out. He has an unshakeable belief system, an unwavering faith, a remarkable capacity to forgive. I love him. Can't help it.

“You’re not making sense. You’re mixing everything up.”

“No, I’m not, Mr. B.  I promised her. I told her, ‘I’m sorry I killed you but I still want to be your son’ and she said, ‘Then you can’t be older than me, Steve’ and I said, I said. . .”
Oh, shit. Here we go. I stood up.
“I said, ‘I won’t, I won’t Mom’ because she told me . . . she said. . .”

“Yeah, I’m in working mode right now.”

“What do you mean?”
“I mean, my name’s Cherry right now,” he said. “And I need to make some money.”

“Hey, Mr. Bee, this is a good one. It starts out with this guy who does high dives. Man, that Elmo.”

I smiled. “You’d better not call him that, Steve. I don’t think he’d appreciate that.”

“Yeah, if he ever heard me call him Elmo I bet he’d say, ‘Not cool, Steve. Now I gotta break your legs.’”

“I can’t live longer than she did.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying, for Christ’s sake.”

“Yes, I do. I want to be with my mom.”

“Hey,” I said, out of the blue, “You’re charging me too much. You shouldn’t be charging me a damn thing, Steve.” 
“Cherry, remember? I—”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Huh?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” I said. I took another pull and closed it up again. “I mean, dear boy. . .”

Steve must have thought that was funny. He cracked a grin.

“I don’t know what I mean, Steve,” I said, smiling back. “I mean, Cherry. Cherry, my dear boy.”

“You’re acting so weird, Mr. Bee.”

“I think I know what you’re trying to say. It’s human nature to want to love and be loved, but people are imperfect, so—”

“So, they mess up,” he finished.

“That’s right.”

“But they have to keep trying,” he added.

I whispered, “Remember that on December 15, Steve,” and the kid whispered back, “I will, if you remember it on my birthday.”

"don't be an idiot, okay?"

cherry pickin', part one

In CHERRY, Steve McGuire, aka 'Cherry', is an enigma: intuitive but clueless, worldly but innocent, a perpetual man-child . . .   

“When I’m in working mode, my name’s Cherry. That’s my professional momiker.”

“You know what? We should go for a ride.”
“What—now?”
“Yep. We should go for a ride right now. We could go to the mall behind J. C. Penney’s.”
My heart skipped a beat. I felt it, swear to God.
“Twenty bucks. No, ten, ‘cause I almost gave you a heart attack.” He said that, then he stuck his tongue out at me. 

“Okay, part one: what was the book and part two: who’s Elmo Leonard?”

The kid slowly shook his head.
“What?”
“That’s not good, I bet.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“I’m not exactly sure what it means, though.” 

“Okay. Remember the day it was snowing? You were standing in the road at Oak and Vine, right in the intersection, remember?”
“Nooo. . .”
“It was snowing and I fell out of the van, remember?”
He laughed. “Oh, yeah, now I do. That was funny.”
“No, it wasn’t. I thought you were going to get hit by that car.”
“Oh, yeah,” he said, smile fading.

“How did you know I was nice?”
“You let me get warm in your van.”
“Oh, Jesus,” I said.

“You were twelve, huh?”
“Yeah, and ever since then, I follow that code. I read it every morning when I wake up and every night before I go to bed.”
“That’s really something.”
“I know.” 

“I didn’t know he was a cop.”
“Wait a minute—”
“And they’re mad at me.”
“Wait a minute, Steve. Who’s mad at you?”
“The cops.”
“Why are they mad at you?”
“I don’t know.” 

He bent down and whispered in my ear, “Open it or I’ll smother you. Do you want to be smothered right now?” 

“Did you know I got a busted rib?”
“Two busted ribs, remember?”
“Oh, yeah, that’s right. And I got two black eyes.”
“I know.”
“And I got a broke nose.”
“I can see it, Steve.”
“Oh, yeah.” He sighed. 

“You can’t adopt me, Mr. Bee.”
“Why the hell not?”
“It’s crazy. You’re crazy.”
“Maybe I am, but you never told me what you want, so what do you want?”
He shrugged, still smiling.
“Seriously, Steve, what do you want? Tell me.”
His smile faded.  

“He knows who I’m with, Mr. Bee,” he said. “Don’t be an idiot, okay?”
 

okay, so maybe he's a shit and a fuck. . .

i love david brandt.

David Brandt, age 38, is a twice-divorced community college professor. He's also a selfish prick and he knows it. He says he doesn't give a crap but you can't put too much stock in that because he's a liar, lying mostly to himself. He's a seriously lonely fuck. He drinks Bacardi 151 to excess. He fancies himself an idiot. He fucks up more often than not. He dreams about bullets and black lace panties for God's sake. . .

I love him so much.

David Brandt is my main character in CHERRY. And the truth is, for much of the novel, he is all those things, but he isn't only those things and that's what makes him so interesting to me. That's what makes him human. He's floundering--trying to make sense of a world that sometimes make no sense. His misery is self-indulgent and insufficient because he's supremely unhappy, but not quite unhappy enough to call it quits.

Yet.

A complicated man.

I can safely say that David Brandt isn't the person at the end of the novel that he was at the beginning, but his transformation certainly isn't complete. It can be measured in degrees and may be temporary. Transient. The guy fucks up, he has in the past, anyway. Chances are, he will in the future and yet, he's willing to keep going, keep going, on the outside chance that the future holds some promise; that some good news might be waiting around that bend. He's willing to think that all may not be lost. It might be a case of a guy on the road to ruin, pulling the wool over his own eyes. Then again, maybe he's finally willing to accept some hard truths about himself, change some things that might not yet be cut in stone. 

Maybe.

I don't know, because I don't know how his story ends. CHERRY is a year in the life, as they say. Just like Brandt, I'm privy to his past, but not his future. I hope things go well, I hope he doesn't slip back into the skin of that selfish prick he was, but you never know. Maybe I love him precisely for that reason: he doesn't know either and grapples with that uncertainty. He wrestles with a past that seems hell-bent on fucking up the rest of his life.

How would I write his future? "Even when he loses the one person he loves, he's willing to consider a happier ending. Maybe not now, but at some point maybe something good will happen. Maybe. He's willing to stick around a little longer and see how it all pans out."

I love David Brandt because at the end of the day I believe he's still here, holding on to hope of better things.