Pensive Sarcasm

The New Guy

2012-01-22T12:29:00.000-05:00

I found a new writer's group up here in Michigan. Hopefully it will be a good match. I really miss my writing friends in Florida and I've gotten such good feedback over the years anyone is going to to have a hard time measuring up.

Having said that, my observations of the new group give me some hope. For one thing the average age of the writers seems to be well under 60. Not that there's anything wrong with being older, but I sometimes felt like my writing output couldn't always measure up to my mostly retired peers.

The other, and more exciting, thing about my new group is that there isn't a memoir writer among them. As a writer of fiction, I've long wished to be surrounded by more of the same for quality feedback. Time will tell if this was a wish worth wishing.

There were, of course, some other differences I'm not so sure about. My old group spent its time critiquing. Whoever wanted to, read about five pages and then we'd go around the room with our thoughts. It seems this new group devotes an entire meeting to one person's writing. From what I gather, they have a month (since they only meet monthly) to read several chapters or more and the entire meeting focuses on that one piece. I don't see that helping me too often when I'm used to immediate feedback on a weekly basis.

Time will tell. They didn't even do that this week. Instead they chatted for about half an hour, then spent 15 minutes on introductions. This must have been for my benefit, since I was the only new guy there. Then there was a short writing exercise. Not my thing really, but they did seem rather impressed with what I whipped up in 5 minutes.

So the future looks bright, although I may date around some. Still, I made an effort to learn all their names, which is more than I can say for the one guy I sit next to for four days in a tiny cockpit.

Howard The Spelling King

2012-01-03T13:42:00.000-05:00

Happy New Year! And happy belated birthday (yesterday) to me. Now on to important things.

Why is it so damn hard to spell and use proper grammar? I work in an industry comprised of supposedly highly educated individuals. I suppose if you didn't know who was sitting up there you might think so. Therefore, it would behoove you to recall the tale of this grammatically challenged airline pilot who wrote a letter regarding some...oh, who cares what it was about? The point is he posted it online, and I swiped it and then put it on this blog for laughs.

Come to think of it, that guy is still King. But my former next door neighbor Howard may be next in line. This is just a small snippet, but I fully expect further written communication (and really, that's all we have left) to reveal deeper ignorance.

First a little back story: A few years ago, Howard insinuated himself onto the association board in part because of his fervent crusade against motorized scooters and the hooligans terrorizing the neighborhood on them. Last week was Christmas, and Howard put a video of nine-year-old Sammy cruising the streets on her brand new motorized scooter.

When Mama Sarcasm called him out, this was Howard's response, with the fun parts highlighted:

Gas Power Scoters were Banned, they are also illeagle to use in Broward County. Electric Ones that do not excede 10 MPH are leagle How is Michican?

Anyone else wonder why I'm not sending my kids to school in Florida?

Where The Old Folks Write

2011-12-26T10:23:00.000-05:00

Since moving back to Michigan, I've been scouring the internets trying to find a local writing group. No luck thus far. And while I've yet to visit a library to inquire what they might be keeping secret, I'm becoming more resigned to the fact I used to write in a very unique place.

South Florida is home to dozens of writer's groups, of all different sizes, genres and colors. I tried out a few but always stayed loyal to my main group. This was an eclectic collection from all different walks of life, all writing about something different while offering great critiques that have made me better over the years.

However, as I reflect on my time down there, one thing is so blatantly obvious it almost need not be stated. I will state it nonetheless since many of you may not be aware of this fact.

Florida is home to many, many old folks. Now I'm not talking rocking-on-a-porch-with-a-blanket-while-your-teeth-fall-out old. I'm talking about retired folks. Folks without jobs and lots of time to write and way too much retirement money to spend on writing conferences, self-publishing and the like.

People up here work all day. (At least those with jobs.) Retirees in Florida have all the time in the world to devote to their craft/hobby/passion. Where ever you look down there you can slip into a group, get a half-way decent critique and better yourself. Up here, I'm not so sure.

I've found one group that meets regularly near the University of Michigan. I'll give it a try, but I'm likely to find a bunch of young know-it-alls, too pumped full of their professors' BS to give serious critique. Then again, that might be a refreshing change.

After all, I can only read so many memoirs no one else will ever see.

So bring on the young. And thanks to the old.

Merry Christmas!

2011-12-19T17:44:00.002-05:00

Listen To The Snow

2011-12-02T21:11:00.000-05:00

It's been a couple of weeks. I'm back in Michigan and the feeling I never left is starting to creep in. It's been a struggle. I miss my friends. Miss the Sun. Miss the beach, even though I rarely went to the beach. Eleven years feels like they're being washed away by the blinding snow. Six inches. I had to buy a shovel. And boots. My poor car doesn't know what happened.

Writing? Please. I can't find all the boxes. And when I find a box I can't find what should be in it. We have a six month lease. Why bother unpacking? Why bother staying?

Because I'm not working as much. But being paid as much. My boy needs me, and is getting more of me than before. That's why.

Sometimes things work out when they never did. This makes me nervous. This past year has been one for the records. Maybe it's a turning point. Could the future really be as bright? I hope so. We're barely a year away from the end of the Mayan calendar. I'm hoping they just ran out of ink.

The Wrong Pants, Part Two

2011-11-15T19:41:00.000-05:00

When we moved to Florida, eleven years ago, there was a couple of weeks when I traveled back and forth between both worlds. Our clothes were scattered and mixed together amongst a number of suitcases. During one of these trips I pulled a pair of jeans, the only pants I had, out of a bag only to discover they belonged to Mrs. Sarcasm.

Well what could I do? I had no other clothes so I squeezed into those lady jeans and held my breath the next six hours. I can't recall if I was able to button them but it left an un-erasable memory.

So now we're in the process of moving back up north. And once again I'm traveling back and forth for a few weeks. This week I'm back in Florida, so of course I need some shorts. I tossed a pair in my bag and when I tried to put them on this morning, sure enough, they belonged to Mama Sarcasm.

It seems there's a bit more of me than eleven years ago. So no shorts for me but I certainly feel I've come full circle.

At least I have my velour suits.

Daylight Savings Time Goof

2011-11-06T10:32:00.001-05:00

This was a few years ago, but worth reporting, since I just read an article about a bunch of other people's screw-ups.

You'll recall from reading this blog so closely, there was a time I was based in Atlantic City for my airline whilst living in Florida. This meant I had to fly up there to report for work and fly all my trips out of New Jersey. The only plus to this was that nearly every layover Atlantic City crews had were in Ft. Lauderdale. This meant getting paid to sleep at home.

One such layover fell on the night of Daylight Savings Time, in this case in the spring, when we set our clocks forward. As much as I was grateful for the chance to sleep in my own bed, setting the clocks ahead one hour made an already short night (something like a 5 AM report time) even shorter. Still, I dutifully changed all the clocks before going to sleep and settled in for what I assumed to be a fitful night, since I never sleep well knowing I have to be up soon.

Strange thing was, the night really dragged on. I recall waking up in the middle of the night feeling very rested only to discover I still had several hours left to sleep. It felt like a gift. That was, until the phone rang.

Crew Scheduling was curious as to my whereabouts, since it was just about departure time and I was nowhere in sight. It was in that moment I realized that when I'd set all the clocks, I had actually set them back instead of forward, thus accounting for those extra hours of sleep.

Fortunately the Crew Scheduler seemed more amused than angry, and I assured him I would get there as fast as possible. I don't recall how late the flight left, but I was greeted by more than one set of rolling eyes from the rest of the crew. Living in New Jersey, they had all gone to the hotel, where it was easy to spot someone not in the lobby at van time.

These days, I'm careful to take the Daylight Savings Day off.

Things I'll Miss About Living In Florida

2011-11-04T18:25:00.000-04:00

7. The weather, obviously.
Summer's always been my favorite season. I've been enjoying it non-stop for the past eleven years. And now that it's finally nice enough to turn off the air conditioner and open the windows, I'm moving to Michigan. Just in time for winter. Bah!

6. The beach.

Elliot at Large

I rarely go anymore, but when we first lived here, we made a point of going to the beach often. I recall my first Thanksgiving as a southerner, digging my toes into the sand and playing in the temperate surf. Sadly, life took over and the beach became just another thing I didn't make time for. I took my son today for the first, and probably last, time.

5. The flora.
Exotic species are everywhere. From swaying palm trees to colorful bougainvillea to citrus groves, sea grape and gumbo limbo trees. I have a fruit haven in my backyard where I grow bananas, pineapples, oranges and the Peruvian apple cactus fruit, which grew back there for years before I even realized it was a fruit.

4. The fauna.

Roseate Spoonbill - Everglades National Park

Alligators, crocodiles, panthers, armadillos, golden orb weaver spiders, Burmese pythons, iguanas, parrots ant lions, scorpions, lizards, geckos and every species of tropical fish, just to name a few. I once found a ferret in my front yard. Admittedly it was someone's pet, but it was a much more enjoyable find than the pygmy rattlesnake on the front porch.

3. My next-door neighbor, Howard.

Howard's Dining Room

Where else will I find such blog fodder. I'm compiling a list of Howard's greatest hits, which ought to include his handing out raisins for Halloween this year. Why, you ask? Tune in later. Actually, he's been helpful when necessary. Still goofy, but a decent friend.

2. La Bamba's Mexican Restaurant.
Mexican food made by real Mexicans. If you find yourself near Ft. Lauderdale, eat here. It is that good.

1. My writing friends - The Inkbloods.


The Inkbloods

I've made other friends over the years. Some have moved on, some have passed on. When I joined the library critique group so long ago, I hoped it would improve my writing. I had no idea it would come with friendships lasting far beyond Tuesday nights. I will miss them most of all.

Halfsies

2011-10-13T15:59:00.000-04:00

In an ironic twist of timing, just as I'm selling my house, and mowing the lawn for perhaps the last time, my lawn mower broke in half.

Not the kind of thing I'm used to seeing, the back half of a lawnmower snapping off in mid-mow. But that's what happened. Now I'm faced with the prospect of borrowing Howard's seldom-used mower to finish the job. But it leaves me wondering if this isn't an omen for my impending move.

It is, after all, the back half of the year. We're in the back half of the deal to sell the house. At least I have an uncut back half of a yard to match the back half of my mower.

Why Are You Still Reading This Blog?

2011-10-11T13:54:00.000-04:00

Okay. So lately I really suck as a blogger. My apologies to anyone still reading. Here's what's what.

I haven't been writing much. I think about a page and a half in the last few months. I've got a three-month-old who keeps me pretty busy. I suppose nap time ought to be writing time, but I'm usually wiped out by then. I've always needed to be in the mood to write anyway.

Being a father has given me fresh ideas for writing. If only I could find the time.

Our neighborhood is in turmoil. Howard clings to power like a Middle-east dictator. Too bad I won't be around to see how it turns out because...

I'm selling my house. I may have sold it actually. I wouldn't think one day on the market would elicit a decent offer, but that's what happened. Since Elliot was born we decided it was important to be closer to family so we're packing up the sunshine and moving home to Michigan.

Just in time for winter.

Major Coup

2011-09-25T22:13:00.001-04:00

With school back in session for a week already, it was high time Howard and Moira took the kids to Disney World for ten days. Never mind they had all summer. Don't you know it's just easier to wait until school starts? Thank goodness for the happiest place on earth, because our little community is anything but.

Quick background: We have a lake. It's banks have been eroding for years. Our association board has twice assessed the homeowners thousands of dollars to fix it. Twice, the fix has failed. They just authorized another assessment. It's a lot. Folks is pissed.

So while Howard the board member rode around Disney World on his association-paid-for golf cart, a recall movement began. I signed the petition. As much as I like to rag on Howard and Moira, I do consider them friends. As a result of that friendship, I know far too much about what goes on on that board. And really, knowing who was behind it, it would be too much fun not to.

Two doors down from Howard lives Linus. Linus is a drunk with a heart condition that will one day leave him dead. No warning. He'll just die. As a result, he doesn't work, instead spending his final days (stretching into years now) sitting in his garage with a beer in his hand. All day long. A few years ago, Linus painted his house a non-board-approved color. After much bellyaching on both sides, he painted the trim a different color, but still refuses to pay the fine levied against him. This, among other things, has pitted Linus and Howard against each other.

Howard is now paranoid. He's so "fustrated" some nut job (read, Linus) will take over and undo all his great deeds, like our ridiculous three-gate entry system for residents. He even fears the "new" board members will want to string "bob-wire" around the lake. This came between laments of how bad he wants to quit the board, but fears who might replace him.

I, being everyone's friend, get to hear both sides. And both sides are nuts. But since it's Linus leading the charge against Howard, I figure there will be fireworks before long. And I missed the fireworks this past Fourth of July, so I figure I'm do for some fun.

And since I'm friends with both, I get to play the instigator too. But here's the best part, none of it will affect me anyway. We're selling our house.

HAHAHAHAAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Fear not loyal readers. Wherever I live, I end up with wacky neighbors. Remind me to tell you about the Herdsmen. Or Morty and Leroy. Or Dennis the Menace. Or Baldy and RAF. Or you could read about Hotpants.

And yes, if I end living next door to you, you too will get a derogatory nickname.

I'm Published!

2011-09-10T20:04:00.000-04:00

I teased some big news a couple weeks ago. My first short story, The Forty-eight Dollar and Thirty-nine Cent Christmas Card, is featured in Journeys IV An Anthology of Award Winning Short Stories.

You know those little envelopes that fall out of your morning newspaper a few weeks before Christmas? The ones pre-addressed to the delivery guy, with a little slot for a Christmas tip he's already decided you owe him? George's mission to tip the paper delivery guy is fraught with sticky locks, confusing cold medicine and one nosy caterer.

And heck, there are a whole bunch of short stories besides mine. Click the link above to order it today. It will be available from Amazon.com on Friday, September 16.

Journeys IV

An Anthology of Award-Winning Short Stories

Authored by Multiple Award Winning Authors
Edited by Mary Lois Sanders

A rainy night in Tampa; a special gift; a link to life; a Christmas card; an old wardrobe; a critique; a sci-fi fantasy; a granddaughter's love; monsters; super heroes; heroes; family reunions; death; adventures in the jungle or in a trash dump, an afternoon for lemonade and mystery ...

Creative Writer's Notebook presents the winners and honorable mention honorees from its 2010 Short Story Competition.

Immerse yourself in an afternoon of pleasure, all from the creative minds of these talented writers.

Swaddle Fail

2011-09-05T22:10:00.000-04:00

My boy needs to be swaddled when he sleeps, otherwise flailing arms and legs keep the entire household awake. When properly swaddled, peaceful, sleeping baby can be achieved.

There are times, however, when pre-flailing prevents an optimum swaddle, even given today's advanced swaddle technology. On these occasions, peaceful sleeping baby lasts only so long. Replaced by this...

Arms usually come free by morning. I can accept that. But this is after only an hour. Don't ask me how the leg got out.

The Deadliest Flight?

2011-08-29T17:44:00.001-04:00

Well, I'm no crab fisherman, but according to Career Builder, my profession has the third highest fatality rate per 100,000.

Fishers and related fishing workers: 116
Logging workers: 91.9
Aircraft pilots and flight engineers: 70.6
Farmers and ranchers: 41.4
Mining machine operators: 38.7
Roofers: 32.4
Refuse and recyclable materials collectors: 29.8
Driver/sales workers and truck drivers: 21.8
Industrial machinery installation, repair and maintenance workers: 20.3
Police and sheriff's officers: 18.0

So how do you like that? For every 100,000 pilots that take off, only 99,929.4 land alive. Thus far, I've been among them, but time will get me as it got that sixth-tenth of a pilot. That wasn't pretty. Having said that, I don't think I'd fair any better in some of these other professions.

I could never make it number 6 as a roofer, since my two biggest fears are roofs and ladders. At first glance I was surprised at number 7 on the list.

Who knew garbage collection was so fraught with danger? But I suppose people throw away some volatile stuff.

Sales workers at number 8?!? I guess some people took Death of a Salesman quite literally.

Maybe I could be a cop. But maybe not. The numbers say it's safer, but even with such a high mortality rate, no one is shooting at me.

I think I'll stay a pilot for a while. It's still the best part-time, full-paying job for me.

Who To Query? Or Is It Whom?

2011-08-24T17:31:00.000-04:00

Irregardless, which is not a word, but irks Mama Sarcasm when I use it, I'm slowly getting back to querying. The question isn't really which agent I should query. I shall query any and all agents offering a modicum of interest, which is to say, I shall query all agents. I don't know who's going to be interested, after all. But I wondered what kind of agent is more attractive. Is it the established agent with years of experience, multiple clients and a long list of contacts? Or is it the new agent, just starting out and trying to build a client list?

There is good and bad about both. And truthfully, I do not know. I'm just hoping to query the agent that likes my story and will best represent it, and me.

What say you?

Quandry

2011-08-23T22:34:00.000-04:00

I've got a major announcement to announce, but it's leaving me uneasy. In order to do this right, I feel I have to reveal my true identity. This, I fear, could backfire, since I've written some not-so-nice things about some real people, like my next door neighbors and a few of the morons I've worked with. Not that I give two rats about the idiots I fly with, but my neighbors, despite what I've written (all true, by the way) are actually decent people. Dare I say, good friends? Well, friends, anyway.

Of course, in the interest of snarkiness, I should point out that Howard mowed his lawn today. Again, he went about three months between cuttings, and picked one of the rainiest days of the year, yet again, meaning the clumpy grass kept clogging his mower, causing him to restart. This is not news. What is news is the strange apparatus he wore which, from a distance, appeared to be one of those masks you put in the freezer and then wear to keep cool. He had it on his forehead. Only Moira's Bret Michaels headband would have completed the ensemble. At least he wore a shirt this time.

At any rate, good news coming soon. Start saving your dollars.

The Sweet Sound Of Silence. And Laughter.

2011-08-17T14:35:00.000-04:00

Somehow my boy has convinced both his parents he will only sleep peacefully if rocking in his swing. The same swing I railed against purchasing, for fear he wouldn't like it and I would then be stuck with this behemoth of a contraption taking up precious space in my minimalist home. Glad I was wrong on that one. But I feared he had become too accustomed to sleeping in this thing, so today, having no confidence it would actually take, I put him in his crib. Now, two hours and sixteen minutes later, he's still dozing peacefully. Let's hope this sticks. I don't want to end up like Howard and Moira, with a nine-year-old who still sleeps in their bed.

Oh, and he's started smiling this week. Not quite on demand, but quite cutely.

Howard The Garbage Thief

2011-08-08T14:39:00.001-04:00

I haven't had to stretch too far to show that my next door neighbor is lazy. Lest you've forgotten, read about the dead fish, the mulch pile, or the one-year-old, Portugese-speaking baby. But now comes a new level of laze. For the past few weeks, I've noticed an extra black trash bag appearing in my garbage bin. I only use white bags.

Today was trash day and last night, I caught all 350 shirtless pounds of Howard sneaking back across the street from the neighbor's garbage can. Apparently I was too slow getting mine out to the curb, so Howard had to go across the street. I can't help but wondering if that really is less work than actually dragging his own garbage can from the side of the house.

Of course, the real irony is that Howard takes out the trash at all. With a greasy sheen for a floor; ants crawling on the counter tops; dead fish under the furniture and dog crap on the bottom of everybody's feet, what could be so repulsive that even Howard throws it away?

Best I not find out. My garbage can will be at the curb Sunday and Wednesday nights.

Ten Things To Not Say To An Airline Pilot

2011-08-01T15:43:00.000-04:00

After forty days on maternity leave, it was back to work today. Some things haven't changed. The traveling public is still a collective moron. So to help on your next foray into an airport, here are some tips.

If you see a person with three or more stripes on their shoulders, that person is a pilot.

The pilot does not know which carousel your bags will be on.
The pilot does not know why your plane, not his plane, is late.
The pilot does not want to hear your most horrendous travel tales.
The pilot is not scared to fly the plane.
If the pilot is sitting in a passenger seat, he is not supposed to be flying the plane.
The pilot has, in fact, flown in some really bad weather.
If the pilot is talking on the phone, do not approach the pilot and speak to him as if he is not talking on the phone. He still will not know where your bags are.
The pilot is (most likely) not drunk. If you think you are making a funny joke, the joke will be on you. The pilot will announce over the loudspeaker that the flight will be delayed while he leaves the airport to pee in a cup. The pilot will also name you as his accuser, to your fellow passengers.
Before you ask the pilot a stupid question, look around at the airport signage.
The pilot does not know where you parked your car.

When The Cord Falls Off

2011-07-25T14:49:00.000-04:00

Someday I swear I'm going to write again. Just like someday I'm going back to work. Although the latter is more from necessity than desire. Believe me, I'm putting it off as long as possible. My boy is 17 days old now, and his life force has sucked my energy. I take back everything I ever said about overwhelmed parents. Not that I would trade it for anything. But it occurred to me the other day, when the remnants of Elliot's umbilical cord finally fell off, he had, in a way, graduated to new level of babyhood.

His new-newborn diapers were designed to avoid touching the cord. No longer necessary. With the cord gone, he could now get wet, and so he had his first bath. His weight is increasing. He's holding his head up more, at least trying to with some success. Today, he looked at me cross-eyed a couple of times. A sign he was trying to focus on me, perhaps?

My point is, passing the umbilical cord milestone lead to a great many new experiences. I expect there will be plenty more, but I also thought about it in terms of writing.

We writers start out just like newborns. Perhaps not all, but most of us probably composed some pretty poor prose in the beginning. We, too, needed our cords to fall off before we improved. A writer's cord may come off in any number of ways and I'm far too sleep-deprived to list them all. Perhaps it comes from a stinging first critique, or even better, a gushing-with-praise critique. Or a first rejection letter. Or, for the younger set, a certain grade in school. Whatever form it takes, that first milestone ultimately teaches us to be better writers.

I've grown substantially as a writer, and I have the proof. I've saved every horrible draft of every document I've ever written. Not just because I may have had a better idea way back when, but, delusional as I am, I envision the writing museum of the future, with my own wing and people agape over varying versions of my most famous works, finally made public.

Of course I have a ways to go. And a bit more sleep may clear that nonsense from my head. Still I've got an upcoming writer's cord moment, which I will announce in the near future. After which, I, and my son, will continue to grow.

What about you? When did your writer's cord fall off?

Ten Days In

2011-07-18T17:50:00.000-04:00

My boy is ten days old. I must have aged ten years. Who knew lack of sleep wielded such power. I fear bragging will do me in, but I may have stumbled onto a solution. Thank the heavens for white noise.

Certainly no one else is parenting Elliot (other than his mum, that is.) For that I pity you. He is, without question, the World's Greatest Baby. Oh sure, everyone thinks their kids are the best, and I don't mean to be one of those dads, but let's face it. All your kids are pretenders.

Although, I would be remiss to admit he hasn't actually done much with his life thus far. He's pretty well coasted on looks alone. Don't worry. I've got some chores waiting for him. In the meantime, feast your eyes on a pretty cute kid.

Elliot's first pose.

Lest you wondered who his mum is, here she is at the same age, making the same face.

Lest you wondered who the dad is, compare our poses.

Swaddled and ready for the big time.

By the way, I delivered him. Yeah. Dad rocks too!

We Have A Son!

2011-07-08T13:50:00.000-04:00

July 8, 2011. 7 lbs. 11 oz. 20 inches long.

The greatest baby in the whole wide world.

We're At The Hospital

2011-07-07T22:50:00.000-04:00

END Baby is almost here.

HOLY CRAP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Random Capitalization Run Amok

2011-06-29T20:29:00.002-04:00

Not everyone is a Rhodes Scholar. And you sure don't need an advanced degree to become an airline pilot. I have the proof. There is a super-secret pilot forum where super-(ahem)-smart pilots spend a good deal of time griping about the chosen profession they despise. One of these super-geniuses is shouting loud for all to read and I can't leave it alone. So here are all the best parts. The beauty is I know this Einstein. I can't wait to fly with him again.

Must not laugh. Must not laugh.

Reprinted without permission, unedited. Except where it gets wordy. Hence the ...

My comments are in blue.

There is a Very serious CBA Conflict both Moral and Ethical issue Presented to us by the "Subsription" Service Charge being forced upon us to Fully Particiapte in the new Electronic Shift Trade System."

Misspelling I can live with. It's the random capitalization I enjoy the most. This, by the way, is just the opening salvo, so you know it only gets better. It's really not necessary to read everything. I will just highlight my favorite parts.

Provided ... communication todate with our Local Reps with regard to this issue listed from Most recent on top to first.
I am in process of ... to seek personal re-embusment for the ... subscriptions costs charge to me

Well, I can't overlook all the misspelling. What follows is taken from an email to our union leadership, which he posted on the forum.

Who ever is responsible ... appears to be either in-sensitive ... and/or has some personal stake in its implantation.

There are a great number of hyphenated words as well. Someone needs to implant the idea of spell check.

There is a significant finical issue here pilot group wide at stake

I really don't know what he was going for here. Financial, perhaps. I prefer not to know.

I am afraid weather the semantics of the definition of a truly "additional' i.e. "Add-On" service vice an essential part of Electronic Shift Trading, critical to making the entire concept of immediate award processing fair, which has been chronologically "added on" after its initial implementation or not is mute

I'm sorry. I couldn't hear that last part. Take this sentence for what it is worth. And then please tell me what it is worth. It confuses me at every attempt.

I don't see how this clause ... could be any Clearer ?

My question regarding this question is what constitutes a question? I thought I knew. Now I'm not so Clear.

I feel my earlier description ... has been mis-understood.

I dis-agree. It's quite Clear.

The Mere Physical constraint ... of the true available open trips Vice the actual true number ....

This is the second time he's used vice. Is it a verb? A noun? I'm con-fused.

The Concept ... is the Same concept as that behind company's effort to Market the ... Subscription service ...

Golly, I thought, with more melancholy than gollys normally carry.

Once the success of this program in effect collecting 10's of thousands of Dollars Back from our employees

Doesn't that look like the name of a night club? Or maybe a country-western bar? I know, a new game show!

Not all of Us Have to take a shower after work ?

I'll leave you to speculate on the context here. Just be sure to leave a space for punctuation.

To Charge for them ... you were to Charge not ... but to Charge us for their Delivery

This reminds me. I must take charge of END Baby's delivery.

Poor bastard. Someone actually called him out on his grammar. Here is his response:

I am sorry too you are distracted from the core of the issue presented here by my grammtical mistakes and poor spelling.

Grammticalling makes me miss Grandma.

This is a very serious issue... unless you PAY to Play. A Practice specificly intended ... with a common understanding.

Each and every Parings represnted ... carries a specific Cash Value in pay. Your ablity to earn ,,, is not a Frivolous Issue. Please do not treat it as such by focusing on my high school english to the point you lose sight of the very real grievance here. This directly affects you.

And I have been moved to mock.

I have dared to reach out to the Pilot group as a whole becuase,

Note the comma. And the misspelling.

Absent a Formal Defence presented ... against the Company ... It is incumbant on ALL ... pay these subsriptions fee's who choose to fully particapte ... to file a formal grieveance ... restitution of the fee's collected.

Frank States the issue will be brought to and considered...

But only if the fee's agree.

Thank Heavens our planes are highly automated.

I'm going to Hell.

The Neurotic In Me

2011-06-24T14:40:00.000-04:00

END Baby is coming any day now. Ah, let me explain about END Baby. You'll recall that we are planning on adopting a Korean, to whom we've long referred as Our Korean. Then Momma Sarcasm went and got pregnant, screwing up our adoption plans. We needed a name for conversational purposes, but we've chosen not to learn the sex until we meet this new baby. So we came up with something better than the generic, The Baby, that wouldn't be confused with Our Korean.

Ethnically Non-Diverse Baby, or END Baby.

I, as an airline pilot, often travel for work. To fill the void as the count winds down, my mother-in-law has come from Michigan for two weeks and three days. It gave me great comfort to know she would take the reigns should END Baby make an early arrival whilst I traveled. END Baby is still not due for a few more weeks, but the doctor said it could well come any day. So I'm done working. But my mother-in-law isn't done visiting. And now, the neurotic in me struggles to stay inside.

To be clear, she is doing lots to help; preparing and freezing weeks of meals; cleaning; laundering, washing dishes; mothering her own baby. Of course the flip side is that she is doing it all in my house.

Let me be clear. I can NOT stand company. I don't care who it is, I do not want anyone in my home who doesn't already live there. I don't even like answering the door for the delivery guy. It is my sanctuary and has been designed for that purpose. Throw in someone who does not belong and all sense of propriety is gone. And whilst I understand that both END Baby and Our Korean will be like company that never leaves, I hope to be more accepting of them.

All of this has me analyzing my psyche. I find I truly am neurotic. For instance, this morning I ran some laundry. Without my knowledge, my aforementioned mother-in-law folded it. Very helpful. Except...

She folds wrong. Just as you would find in a store, freshly laundered shirts must be presented chest up, with the bottom tucked under and the sleeves wrapped around back. And outside out. At least she didn't go into my drawers to put away my drawers. Of course this only left me fighting the urge to re-fold everything.

She is here to help. She is here to help.

She does the dishes wrong and openly admits it. Apparently, I have earned a reputation as a "dishwasher Nazi," for repeatedly insisting my loading guidelines be followed. This has been a fifteen-year battle with Momma Sarcasm. I now see where she gets it.

She is helping.

I gave up my restroom. My sanctuary within my sanctuary. It is neat. It is minimalistic. It is no longer my own. Yet I notice the toothbrush holder sits empty. The cup is bone dry. How does she rinse her mouth after brushing, I asked? She does not, she answered with a laugh, as though the mere suggestion were ludicrous. She runs the brush under the faucet and then sucks water from the bristles. Barbaric.

I need help.

I fear for my children. I'd better possess powerfully dominant genes.

When To Say When?

2011-06-15T21:56:00.000-04:00

Does there ever come a time in your writing when you get bored? And not because your story is boring, although that can certainly be the case, but maybe you've been working on something so long, it becomes a chore. Or maybe you come up with a new idea whilst in the midst of an old one. Then what do you do? How realistic is writing two completely different pieces at the same time? Or more than two? Can novels and short stories exist in the same universe that is a writer's mind? At what point must you set one down to concentrate on the other?

The saving grace of the unpublished writer is the freedom to ditch something old for something new. Or even ditching something new to go back to something old. Either way, the passion better be strong, or everything is going to suffer.

Does anyone else have these problems?

Howard And The Mulch Pile

2011-06-09T10:58:00.001-04:00

Some of the neighbors have spruced up their yards, bringing in professional landscapers to make things nice. My next-door neighbor, Howard, has been lamenting how awful his yard looks. I've been pointing out how awful it's looked for years to no avail. I guess seeing everyone else's results spurred Howard to action. Not that he called in a professional or anything, despite my encouragement. He decided to go all Sarah Palin on the neighborhood.

He has an area near the front door that has, over the years, been home to a fountain, a park bench, a rock garden and currently all of the above, buried under some pretty thick grass. Once he got to work there was no stopping him. Except when NASCAR was on. Or it looked like it might rain. Or he'd had to go to work for an hour that day. Or the kids were sick. Or Disney was only three hours away.

So instead of the poured concrete borders that come in a variety of colors and shapes, are resistant to infestation and don't fade in the sun, Howard decided to put down wooden railroad ties, that will fade in the sun, but only after they disintegrate under the daily South Florida downpours and will then be devoured by termites.

But Howard sawed and cut. Not carefully of course. You can see how the corners don't exactly line up. No problem, just stick a stray scrap of wood in the gap. And what about all that grass? Howard's plan to fill the area with mulch was a good one, but I advised he dig up the grass first, lest it continue growing through the mulch. Not necessary, he assured me. He'd just cover it. That'll kill the grass. Click on the pic for a closer look at how that's working out, two weeks later.

And, you'll notice, out by the curb lay the mutilated remains of an old desk. An unfortunate, yet vital sacrifice, necessary to ensure the dreaded return of Howard's fish tank.

To Be Continued...

Top Ten Fewer Things In My Life

2011-06-01T18:38:00.000-04:00

This baby's changing things. Here are a few, in the order in which I think them up.

10. Sleep - They say sleep now, because we'll never get it back. Well, why the hell am I so tired already? I'm still getting my eight hours? Am I that old?

9. Brown hair - This one is disturbing in two ways. First, I've always prided myself on still having all of my hair, still in the original color. This kid hasn't even been born yet and I'm noticing little white hairs. Either I'm aging or there is a recessive albino gene that is finally making itself known. Yet for some reason, this doesn't bother me, which is the second part that is deeply disturbing.

8. Aviation magazines - Let me put it this way: Do you think a cashier wants to read about cash registers all day long*? Certainly not. Momma Sarcasm no longer works in an advertising agency where one of the accounts had something to do with something to do with flying. Every week she'd bring home magazines she'd been given because people assumed I wanted to read them. I do not. But she has a little problem saying no. Except to me.

7. Writing time - I can't write with her in the house. It's like pulling my pilot suitcase with my left hand, or riding an escalator without holding on. It throws off my equilibrium and I'm certain I will plummet to my death.

6. McFlurries - Did you know pregnant women can't have soft-serve ice cream? Something about breeding harmful bacteria, or some such thing. This sucks. We used to have a lot of these. And it's hot as frak! I could still eat them in front of her but would end bad for me. Not that it would affect everything...

5. Sex - I know you can still have sex during pregnancy, but are you kidding me? How creepy is that? It is, in every way, the wrong kind of threesome.

4. Work - Not everything on this list is bad. I'm taking all of July off. As much of August as I can. Work sucks. Even when you like it.

3. Oprah - Not really pregnancy related, and I suppose this applies to almost everyone, but I'm running out of ideas.

2. TV shows - My entire Tuesday night lineup got cancelled. Smallville is done. Steve Carrell left The Office. In a way, I'm glad. Serial telly is such a timesuck. At least I've got a few years of Sesame Street to look forward to.

1. My own car - Momma Sarcasm's car don't work for baby tot'n. It's old, but it's paid for, so we're swappin'. I don't know why I'm suddenly writin' like a redneck. Maybe caus'n our cable company done added a bunch of channels and we now get the Dukes of Hazzard every night. YeeeeeHOOOO!

*I almost quoted Kumar, from Harold and Kumar go to White Castle - "Just cause you're hung like a moose doesn't mean you gotta do porn."
So true. And a much better Wilson Phillips lip-syncing scene than Bridesmaids.

Exploring New Worlds

2011-05-31T22:03:00.001-04:00

That seems like a good title for a post on writing fiction. Alas, what follows is a true and somewhat frightening tale of my new life. Sometime soon, I will become a father, a change which requires forays into heretofore unknown territory. Awhile back, we ventured into the baby store. I had never been. Didn't know they existed to such degree and had no idea the amount of stuff babies need. Thank heavens they put everything on display to help me. It was quite daunting for someone who not only didn't know anything, but who didn't know what it was I didn't know. Did that make sense? Let me try again.

It's not that I didn't know the answers. It's that I didn't know there were subjects about which questions existed that required answers. If you're still confused, read the definition of froggered.

Well I sure was glad the people at the baby store put everything so clearly on display, because not knowing what one needs becomes a bit less challenging when they just show you that you need everything. And we must because it was all there, bright and colorful at every turn. Of course I'll need a new home to fit it all. And a large garage. And a warehouse. Or perhaps they would let us take up residence in a small corner of the store. This would add the convenience of having a baby photo studio right in our home, which, they (along with a few others) so helpfully informed me, is one more thing we need. So while everyone may continue to tell us everything we need, and I will foolishly suggest we wait until we see whether we need it, I can relax in knowing it is readily available somewhere on the very high shelves of our new home, open to the public Mon thru Sat 9 - 9 and Sundays 11 - 6.

However, on the off chance they don't let us move into the store, a couple of days ago we went to a baby consignment sale. I thought this unnecessary since we already had our own, never-been-used and still-in-the-original-package baby, but was pleasantly surprised to discover no infants with price tags. Instead there was lots and lots of stuff. Almost as much as the baby store, but more disturbing were the mommies. They were all-too familiar with all this baby stuff and spoke a language neither I, nor Momma Sarcasm, understood. We felt like strangers in a strange land. Like explorers on an alien world. How long had this society existed? What were the customs and practices? How does one adapt to their social norms? And why were there so many super-sized drinks from McDonald's in the strollers'* cupholders? Needless to say, we came home with more stuff we absolutely need. Our house is beginning to look like the hillbilly neighbors', ready to burst at the seams.

At any rate, here is my child's foot, taken last week. That is one mammoth big toe. Not that we're expecting a pachyderm. In fact, we don't know what we're having. Well, a human, I expect, but we don't know the sex and have been pretty surprised no one has slipped up at any of these ultrasound appointments. I've been diligent about telling them not to tell us. Still, I can just see us making it to the last hour and some nurse walks in to the delivery room to congratulate us on our little girl. Not that we think it's a girl, although Momma Sarcasm thinks there is a taco in this picture, but why would they give us a picture showing the goods when they know we don't want to know? Still, we photoshopped the taco out, lest some smarmy blog reader, who actually knows what they're looking at, congratulates us on our little girl. And if little girls' ultrasound bits actually do look like little tacos, do keep it to yourselves.

*Henceforth, strollers shall be referenced as prams. That is what the British call them. And I am worldly.

Caught In A Loop

2011-05-24T12:21:00.000-04:00

Perhaps Blogger is confused, but I can't leave any comments anywhere, except as anonymous. When I try to sign in, I am put into an endless loop that takes me to the sign-in page, where I sign in, then back to the comment form, where I am anonymous. So I scroll down to select my account and am taken back to the sign-in page and on and on and on and on....

I would ask if anyone else is experiencing this, but if you are, how could you answer yes?

Gun-Toting Mamas

2011-05-17T19:01:00.001-04:00

With fatherhood looming (Just get here already. It feels like it's been three years) what better way to celebrate than a collection of mom's-to-be, awash in the glow of...wait? What? Oh, pardon me. That glow is the from the hot muzzle. For some reason...for some, ungodly reason, the interwebs teems with pictures of pregnant women posing with firearms. So let's celebrate that.

I said NO jackboots on the new sod!

Tom assumed she'd never know he didn't wear a condom. Eventually, she figured it out.

Does this really need an explanation?

On second glance, you're right. It's a lovely pattern. My apologies.


Oh yeah? Well what's your nursery look like?

Bonus

No gun, but how could I not?

Yeah. I stole all these pictures. What are you gonna do, shoot me?

Small Tales Reminder

2011-04-28T11:50:00.000-04:00

We want your short stories for our Small Tales Anthology. Deadline for submissions is May 31. Polish what your working on and send it off. There's only a month left.

Easter Hillbillies

2011-04-24T11:15:00.000-04:00

My next door neighbor, Howard, mowed his lawn last week for the first time in four months. I assumed it was because I threatened to call the city again. Not so. Today being Easter, they needed short grass for the egg hunt in the backyard, else it might have presented a challenge that required the kids to, I don't know, actually hunt for the eggs. Instead, Moira led baby Eddie to each egg, pointed it out and then lowered him down so he could pick it up and put it in the basket she placed in front of him. All the while, he kept falling down, which is more of a hazard than you might think since Alfalfa the dog had just done his business all over the egg patch. Through it all, Howard was nowhere in sight. Must be NASCAR day.

Happy Easter!!
^

Small Tales Update

2011-04-13T08:46:00.000-04:00

My Small Tales partner Vince Ferraro has posted a little tribute to the e-reader over on the Small Tales Blog. For those of you still clinging to your paper books in fear of e-reading, I can only ask, why are you blogging and reading blogs? It's the way of the future, and it's how we will be publishing Small Tales, so if you don't want to miss out on some fantastic short stories, get on over there and see what Vince has to say.

And don't forget, we're accepting short story submissions through May 31.

Friends You Don't Know

2011-04-11T15:30:00.000-04:00

I just googled someone I haven't heard from in a few years. Wow. I'm glad I haven't. This is disturbing on so many levels.

First, the background:

Some years ago, I wanted to be an airline pilot, so I moved to Florida and went to flight school. To gain some experience I became a flight instructor (I know, that sounds backwards, but is completely common.) At the flight school, I made some friends. One particular fellow was a bit of a know-it-all, who didn't always know it all that well. Renee Bradley* wasn't always likable, but eventually we became pals. Not great pals. Maybe not even good pals, but we were friends, and as annoying as he could sometimes be, Renee had a quality about him that told you he was a very loyal friend.

Renee had an interesting, if not entirely enviable, backstory. He came from money although I don't think he ever earned any. Someone bought him a Karate school. Someone else paid for his condo. He drove a purple Mustang that was probably a gift. And, he got a nice settlement after a car accident. Despite all this, he seemed to work pretty hard, flying as much as anyone else and we were all trying to fly as much as possible so we could move on to better things. All the while, Renee seemed like the kind of guy who wanted people to think he was successful, outgoing and popular. However, I heard him say on more than one occasion that he was looking forward to going home at night to play with his cats. I always thought that was who Renee really was, too shy to really let anyone get to know him, but desperate to be liked.

Really, Renee was a guy with low-self esteem, who's father belittled him in front of me the one time I met him. Renee was incapable of finding love because he jumped into relationships too fast and too hard. Still, he was a friend.

We all moved on from the flight school but kept in touch somewhat. Then I'd heard Renee was in another car accident and couldn't fly anymore. Others who knew him better said he just kind of quit on life. He became addicted to pain killers and spent all of his time on the couch, no longer even playing with his cats. I spoke to Renee for the last time four years ago. He sounded out of it, calling himself retired and hanging out with his other retired friends. Renee Bradley was 34 years old.

Now, the disturbing:

Google turned up the following headline:

Renee Bradley Had Two Beautiful Young Women Die in His Apartment.

In retirement Renee became quite the playboy. He partied hard, abusing prescription drugs, cocaine and who knows what else. He frequented sex clubs and had the wrong kinds of connections. The police referred to him as the Candy Man, able to get you anything you wanted. He apparently used this ability to attract impressionable young girls, just starting out in life. One such young woman overdosed in his condo. He tried CPR and called 911. She died.

But Renee was already moving on. He had a new girlfriend, and took her to the funeral. Four months later, she, too, died under identical circumstances.

Were this anyone else I wouldn't hesitate to say he killed them, either by giving them some lethal combination of drugs, or something else just as sinister. The guy in the paper sounds like a sociopathic serial killer. And yet I now understand how people can so blindly stand by loved ones that are so blatantly guilty and defend their innocence.

I don't know what Renee's culpability is, (the police called him a person of interest, but have declined to charge him in either death) but it sure seems high. I'm just left wondering how the shy, annoying, know-it-all I once considered a friend became such a monster.

Makes you wonder who we really know.

*Not his real name, don't bother googling Renee Bradley.

Baby Expo Vs. Boomer Expo

2011-04-04T09:51:00.001-04:00

A year ago, I stopped by Boomer Expo to support an author friend selling her book to old people. It was among the more amusing events I had ever attended. This past weekend, with fatherhood looming, I went to Baby Expo.

A few comparisons:

At Baby Expo, vendors set out samples of their products. Little kids take these things, because they are little kids and don't know any better.

At Boomer Expo, vendors also set out samples and old people take these things because old people hoard and steal. My friend had little candies on her table. They took the candies. She also had it decorated with Mardi Gras-style beads. They stole the beads. No one bought her books.

At Baby Expo you dodge strollers. At Boomer Expo you dodge wheelchairs and walkers and hovearounds.

Baby Expo has races for kids on wheeliehorses. Boomer Expo had Sean Connery and Marilyn Monroe look-a-likes. Both dudes!

At Baby Expo you can get a free 3D ultrasound that shows a clear image of your child-to-be. At Boomer Expo you can get free cancer or diabetes screening.

At Baby Expo you can try out strollers.

At Boomer Expo you can try out a casket.

The End.

Celebrity Brush-Past Of The Day

2011-03-31T18:38:00.002-04:00

A trip to the doctor resulted in a prescription for Mrs. Sarcasm and a popcorn craving for myself. Our local Target didn't have the medicine we needed, but they have a very nice deal on popcorn and pop. Two CVSs later, an older dude shuffled past, wearing a half-open shirt and a goatee.

"That was Barney Miller," I said.

"It did look like him," said Mrs. Sarcasm, sounding like she thought I was nuts.

But I know a fake New York cop when I see one. And when we sat down to wait for our pregnant lady pills, enjoying our popcorn and pop, the pharmacist commented that all we needed was a movie.

So I said, "I thought I just saw Hal Linden. Maybe he could come back and do a show."

"Yeah, that was him," said the pharmacist. "He comes in here a lot."

"Are you kidding?" exclaimed Mrs. Sarcasm, now sounding disappointed I was not nuts.

Now, I do not live in what anyone would describe as a celebrity mecca, but apparently this particular CVS is something of a magnet for the rich and sort-of famous. Perhaps because it's close to an expensive stretch of beach and the pharmacist respects their privacy. I rethought that after the pharmacist ticked off a list of who's who that you might have heard of, or know of someone who might be related to someone else.

People like Hal Linden. The Cake Boss's mom. Enzo Ferrari, owner of Ferrari. Some cat who apparently owns all the car dealerships in Florida. I'm sure there would have been more, but our prescription was ready.

This isn't our regular store. In fact, we live on the other side of town, but if this writing and flying thing doesn't work out, maybe I'll have a go as a paparazzo.

Announcing The Small Tales Anthology

2011-03-30T08:00:00.013-04:00

Lack of blogging doesn't mean inactivity. Today I put a crib together. All by myself. Wouldn't my father-in-law be impressed? And he wasn't even there to tell me how to use an Allen Wrench. (I'll bet he doesn't even know who Allen was, which puts us on equal ground.)

I have also been busy working on another project. A secret project. Be it secret no more!

Below is the official press release.

Welcome! The Small Tales Editorial Board is super excited today to announce the kick off of our project. So what is the project, exactly? Small Tales is a new anthology of cross-genre short stories. And we're open to submissions.

Small Tales is run by writers, for writers. We are Sierra Godfrey, Linda Leszczuk, MC Howe, Vince Ferraro, and Mike Chen.

Small Tales will be published electronically, and will feature short stories up to 5000 words in length (excepting erotica and poetry). The idea is to present good fiction, laid out in easy to read style, in PDF or e-reader format.

Small Tales will be published in August 2011. We're really excited about putting together a collection of good fiction, and would love your submission. See our Submissions page for info on submitting.

Have any questions about Small Tales, how was it formed, or what the process will be? Leave a comment!

So head on over to the Small Tales Blog for more info and then start writing!

Big Love = Big Let Down

2011-03-22T17:36:00.000-04:00

Why am I reviewing a TV show only people with a subscription can watch, when I've never reviewed anything before?

Because, frankly, I have nothing else to blog about. You may have noticed its been quiet around here lately. No excuses, just quiet.

If you haven't seen, or heard of it (if so, why are you still reading) Big Love was an HBO television series about a polygamist family and the struggles that come with "practicing the principle of plural marriage." Not strictly Mormon, they followed the teachings of Mormon founder Joseph Smith to the letter, especially the one that said a man had a celestial obligation to have more than one wife.

Bill Henrickson was the head of the family, the priesthood holder, which is their way of saying he made the rules because he had a cosmic hot-line to the Heavenly Father. He had three wives and between them, lots of kids. During the five seasons of Big Love, we saw the Henrickson clan fight moral battles against both the foes and proponents of plural marriage, the latter being the nuts from a town called Juniper Creek, based on the real life town of Colorado City, Arizona, where I have visited. The former included regular Mormons (the Henricksons live in Utah, for goodness sakes) like their neighbors Pam and Carl. Pam is the BFF to Bill's third wife Margene, while Carl resents everything Bill and his family stand for, fearing Margene's influence on Pam.

Bill owns a successful home improvement store, but increasingly branches out to diversify. The problem is he keeps getting involved in more and more public enterprises, always putting his family in jeopardy, since polygamy is all illegal and stuff. Well, Bill finally goes over the deep end when he gets elected to the Utah state senate, announces he is a polygamist and vows to end the persecution of polygs.

Things go downhill from there. The stores start losing business. Bill's kids get beat up at school and his marriage(s) suffer(s). When it is revealed that his third wife was only 16 when he married her, he faces charges of statutory rape, expulsion from the Senate and the goofballs from Juniper Creek come gunning for him, literally.

Still with me?

Good, cause that was all setup for this.

Okay, Spoiler Alert

With all this looming over their heads, the producers of Big Love had a pretty tall order to wrap everything up Sunday night. Would Bill go to jail? Would the prophet of Juniper Creek send Bill to an early meeting with Heavenly Father? Would the marriage survive? Would he get impeached?

No to all of the above.

In the end, they avoided everything by having Carl the neighbor, who had been in all of like, two scenes the entire series, and who's previous claim to fame was being Jerry Seinfeld's pool guy, Ramon, shoot Bill because he was mad that Bill took it upon himself to re-sod Carl's lawn while he was out of town.

Major cop-out. Great writers know how to get their hero out of a jam. And while a lot of other reviews have praised this ending as brilliant, I call foul. Yeah, yeah...nice little epilogue at the end with the family still together, the Sister Wives having bonded stronger than ever in the wake of Bill's death, but come on! Carl!?! Or should I say, Ramon the pool guy? After all the great villains this show has produced over the years to have such a nobody off our hero leaves me still asking why all these days later.

Anyway Big Love is over and I'm not having withdrawals, so I guess, from that standpoint, it ended well. Seinfeld said you should always leave them wanting more, but I don't think he meant more Ramon.

That's it for me!

Fun With My Father-in-law...

2011-03-17T14:45:00.000-04:00

...Wait. That's not right.

You Can't Use Sarcasm. He Doesn't Get It.

No. That doesn't quite capture the essence. I know.

Things I'm More Than Capable Of But Have No Desire To Do So The Mrs. Calls In Her Dad?

Or maybe...

I Am A Moron Just Like His Own Son.

Too obvious.

Put Down The Damn Sudoku Puzzle!

How about,

Do You Want To Go Anywhere? No I'm Fine. What Do You Want To Eat? Whatever You Want Is Fine. Is There Anything You'd Like To Do While You're Here? I'm Fine.

Getting close.

24 Hours Without Sleep. Flew All Night Across The Country So I Could Get Home In Time To Drive Him Back To The Airport.

One more. I think this is it.

Here For A Week. Need A Week To Recover.

Lost In Translation

2011-03-08T12:02:00.000-05:00

Due to the nature of my job, I often depart hotels buck early. Way before anyone has taken their first morning breath, let alone contemplated breakfast. On days such as these, my airline has contracted our hotels to provide a bagged breakfast, which usually consists of fruit, yogurt, a bagel or danish and some juice.

This past Saturday was just such a day. But when I asked the front desk clerk for my brown bag, he gave me a sheepish grin and told me they only provide them before 6 AM. I pointed out that my watch read 5:50. His answered with a shrug that one or two minutes doesn't count. Quite certain those minutes do count, I reminded him of his contractual obligation. He then told me I could get something in the restaurant. When I asked if the restaurant was open, knowing full well my contract entitled me to a bagged snack, he shrugged again. This was not an answer, so I prodded further.

"The restaurant opens at six," he said.

"But I have to be on the van to the airport at six. Which is why you are required to provide my snack before six."

"You can go in at 5:45."

I was dubious, to say the least. This now put things before six, and he should still be required to offer a snack. Besides, you can't very well enter a restaurant at 5:45 and be expected to have completed your meal by six. He finally relented, allowing me to take a single granola bar/and or a piece of fruit and a beverage. I shouldn't have been so grateful, but at least I didn't try to make off with a morning salad and pint of ice cream like one of the flight attendants.

Still, there was something this hotel clerk had in common with the next food service professional that gave me pause. Both were from India. (I surmised this. They could have been Pakistani, or from elsewhere in that region, but neither seemed to be a local. And both spoke with heavy accents.)

Whilst paying for a sandwich at Subway, I noticed apple pie on the menu. This intrigued me, and I inquired about the pie. What size was it? What was it's shape? Was it baked or fried (like the old McDonald's apple pies before they became "healthy.")

"I don't sell those," she said.

"But they're on your menu," I pointed out.

"Some things I don't sell," she said. "Sometimes I do. Today I don't."

Somethings, even the obvious, aren't so much. Even when printed in ink, or tiny plastic letters, you'd better be sure to ask. And if you want a delicious apple pie, (she did at least confirm they are like the old McDonald's apple pies) you'd better plan a trip to Europe. At least as of ten years ago, you could still get them there.

A Day With Captain Personality

2011-03-02T16:17:00.001-05:00

I've blogged a great deal about my job as a pilot, and the many characters I'm forced to endure in the tight enclosure called the cockpit (also known as the box office, but only with an all female crew.) The latest was a guy possessing the ability to enhance the mundane in the already boring.

What I've never done is detail a typical day in the life. That's difficult, because no days are typical. I could be gone for days at a time, beginning in one hotel and ending in another. I might only fly one leg and have the rest of the day to myself. Or, as was the case this past Monday...

7:30 - Wake up. Feel Mrs. Sarcasm's belly for baby movement. Nothing. This kid likes to shy away from me.

7:30 - 8:00 - Enjoy a bowl of Apple Jack's and Charlie Sheen's morning show meltdown.

8:30 - Mrs. Sarcasm leaves for work. I promise to call the drug company to straighten out a billing issue and deposit a check into savings at the ATM At least I think she said savings.

8:45 - Retrieve floor steamer from attic. (Tile floors have silicone streaks thanks to runaway grout sealer.)

9:10 - Determine steamer isn't getting the job done.

9:15 - 9:25 - Research cleaning solutions.

9:25 - Discover solution. Determine it to be more labor intensive than time allotted.

9:30 - Watch Smallville on TiVo.

10:20 - Curse Smallville producers for wasting one of the final episodes in a rip-off of The Hangover. Watch The Big Bang Theory. Applaud brilliant ending.

10:40 - Shower

10:50 - Remember promise to call drug company. Call drug company.

11:00 - Lunch

11:15 - End call with drug company.

11:20 - Leave for work.

11:30 - Stop at ATM. Deposit check into checking. Remember it was supposed go to savings.

11:31 - Transfer funds. Pat myself on the back for getting it right.

12:00 - Arrive at airport.

12:20 - Arrive a plane. Scheduled departure is 13:00. No captain in sight. Begin preflight checks.

12:40 - Complete preflight checks. Still no captain. Consider calling Crew Scheduling.

12:45 - Boarding complete. Captain arrives. No explanation. No apology. No nice to see you. States that this will be his leg to fly the plane. Seems to have forgotten his personality.

12:50 - Depart gate. Captain follows bizarre taxi route to the runway.

12:56 - Arrive at runway. Captain complains of the long line for takeoff. Says it looks like we'll be waiting a while. I mutter that some of us have already been waiting a while.

13:12 - Takeoff.

13:25 - Captain tells me I look like this one actor, but can't remember who. I ask what he's been in. He says Fargo. I shake my head in disappointment. People used to tell me I looked like Tom Cruise.

Faster than you can jump off a couch I've gone from this...


To this.

14:00 - Captain tells me my shoes are in violation of company policy. Pulls out manual and opens to the page on footwear, which, for some reason, he has bookmarked. I tell him he can report me when we get to Boston and I'll get off the trip. He decides my shoes are okay. (because they are.)

14:15 - Captain stinks up the cockpit with a can of Tuna.

14:16 - Captain chokes on tuna. Spends next twenty minutes coughing.

14:45 - I take a bathroom break so I can get away from the tuna smell and the coughing. Get a lemonade and some M&M's.

14:50- Still choking.

(At 15:00 I did something I'm not going to write about, lest the FAA figures out who I am. When finished, I was caught up on the previous day's events.)

15:58 - After approaching too high and too fast, captain lands in Boston.

16:02 - Arrive at gate.

16:03 - Captain discovers cockroach in his flight bag. Declares it is pregnant and freaks out. Bristles at the suggestion he brought it from home.

16:04 - Captain leaves, announcing he'll be back "later."

16:05 - Begin preflight.

16:20 - Call home. Find out deposit was supposed to go into checking.

16:40 - Captain returns. Announces he stuffed his face with Japanese food and two ice cream cones.

16:42 - Decides he must check my work for accuracy. I let him know it was not only accurate, but done on time.

16:58 - Leave gate. He turns the wrong way and screws up the flow of airport ground traffic.

17:08 - My leg. Flawless takeoff.

17:50 - Captain begins crossword puzzle.

18:25 - Captain begins nap.

20:08 - I execute near perfect landing. Told our gate is occupied. Expect 40 minute wait. Shut down engines.

20:40 - Still waiting. Try Family Feud demo on new phone. Won't load. Try Sims Demo. Sim won't go where I want him to.

21:07 - Arrive at gate. Shut down plane.

21:50 - Arrive home. Listen to baby's heartbeat. Still not kicking for me.

22:00 - Eat meatballs and mashed potatoes much later than I prefer. Finally watch last week's The Office and Parks and Recreation.

23:00 - Nighty-night.

The Truth Behind The Lie

2011-03-01T09:31:00.000-05:00

Apparently I'm not a very good liar. Most people were spot on that I had not, in fact, taken third place in the Seventh Annual Coconut Scramble. To my knowledge there is no Coconut Scramble. But shouldn't there be?

The rest was true. I am a loud ice chewer and walk like a duck. At least I used to. Not with a waddle or anything, but my toes have always pointed out. This actually turned out to be a legitimate ailment, which has been treated and has had pleasant side effects. It has not, however, curbed my need for incessant foot tapping, often when the music is only in my head.

Fun Story:

For my first airline job I was based at Washington National, just across the river from D.C., an airport steeped in paranoia in the days after 9/11. Back then, there were all kinds of security procedures in place to create the illusion of safety. One of the safety protocols was the use of a secret code word the pilots had to provide before entering Washington's airspace. This was rather silly because any bad guy with a radio only had to listen to all the pilots saying the same random word unrelated to anything else in the transmission.

Fun Story within a Fun Story:

The secret word changed every day, and was provided to the captain, who would then tell the first officer. One day the word was frog.

Fun Story within a Fun Story within a Fun Story:

I used to fly with a guy from the tiny African nation, Eritrea. His English was impeccable, but I learned he did not have a handle on homonyms. If the word was 'horse' for example, I would write it down as 'hoarse.' He would freak out that I was going to say the wrong word, and we might have to divert. Because...

The captain told the first officer the word was frog. The first officer responded, "Dog?" and the captain said, "No. Frog. You know, ribbet." When it came time to enter the airspace and say the word, the first officer said, "Ribbet," and they had to divert.

So you can see how tense it can get. Well, I was brand new and tapping my foot to the soundtrack in my head. At about 500 feet as we were about to land we encountered windshear, a sudden burst of wind that can be quite hazardous when close to the ground. It's something we train for extensively, and since I was fresh out of training, assumed it must happen all the time. Not so much. We aborted the landing and climbed to a safe altitude, avoiding all the monuments we're not supposed to fly over, all the while my foot kept tapping. Somewhere in the middle of it all, the captain, who was flying the airplane, yelled at me to stop tapping my damn foot because it was making him nervous. Not the windshear that could have killed us.

But for that moment, he was unforgettable. Unlike the guy in my next post...

First Crusader Challenge

2011-02-23T17:15:00.001-05:00

It's high time I got around to the First Crusader Challenge. It seems I made it with days to spare. I am now required, in 300 words or less, to tell:

· one secret

· one lie

· one interesting quirk

· one annoying habit

· one of your best character traits, and

· one of your favourite things in the whole world.

And I'm supposed to use the words, bloviate, fuliguline, rabbit and blade. Must find a dictionary...

I'll not lie. I hate these things. It's no secret I tend to bloviate and who wants that? But a challenge is a challenge...

I walk like a duck and recently took action to rectify my fuliguline gait. There have been some interesting side effects, not the least of which is that my calves have strengthened to those of a much younger man. I'm not saying I can jump like a rabbit, but I recently took third place in the Seventh Annual Coconut Scramble. I sprang a third of the way up a thirty-foot tree in a single bound, needing only 12.4 seconds to complete the climb. My doctor will be quite pleased. I didn't believe he could cure me without surgery, but so far no blade has touched my feet. And I need my feet. Not for walking or anything, although I appreciate mobility. But I have a rather interesting quirk, which some might call an annoying habit, although I consider loud ice chewing my annoying habit. My interesting quirk is that I always tap my feet to music. Not even always good music, which can be a concern, but I can't kill the beat no matter what. Fortunately my ears work well in concert with my fingers to change the station as soon as a sour note is played. Since good music is one of my favorite things in the world, it is important all my parts are in working order. But don't worry, I won't subject you to my singing, for while I think I'm pretty good, I am humble enough to be too insecure to prove it. You're welcome.

Challenge accepted and met. Although, I may have revealed something about me that isn’t strictly true, can you guess what it is? Answers in the next post...

Keeping Frak A Four-Letter Word

2011-02-18T10:00:00.000-05:00

Longtime followers may have noticed I tend not to use foul language. I possess a wide enough vocabulary to get my message across without the need to curse. I do, however, toss out an F-bomb every now and again. Sparingly, of course. But frak! Sometimes no other word will do. So it was with great concern I saw this story on CNN, Hollywood fights to end 'fracking.' Don't bother clicking the link. It's completely boring. But I was left wondering...

Is my favorite expletive under assualt?

Thankfully not. Apparently 'fracking' with a 'c' refers to drilling for natural gas. Really? Drilling? How anyone could misappropriate such a delightful malediction to refer to something with such obvious sexual undertones is beyond me. That's frakked up.

The letter 'c' notwithstanding, I fear this may be the beginning of a more widespread and sinister attack. With so much of the world illiterate it is not unthinkable this is a veiled attempt to remove frak from the vernacular of polite society. If we learned one thing from Battlestar Galactica, it is that all of this has happened before. All of it will happen again.

My good friend Jeanne Krause wrote a post about all the things she did as a kid, yet somehow survived. Things like drinking water from the hose, riding a bike without a helmet, and spending a night in jail because her parents sided with The Law! You think today's kids have ever done any of that? Society has taken away anything with just a hint of danger. Frak has started to appear on mainstream TV as an acceptable alternative to the unsayable. As a word, it is both harmless and fun. But I fear this halting of 'fracking' may be the next assault.

I'm not frakked in the head here. Hollywood first brought frak to the mainstream. If they turn against it, where will it lead? The newspapers? In schools? On the playgrounds?

So, my friends, I beseech you. Don't let them turn frak into a five-letter word. When you feel the need to curse, instead say frak. You could cause the ripple that turns the tide.

The Traveling Meat Salesman

2011-02-16T20:39:00.000-05:00

How's that for a title? This isn't actually about a traveling meat salesman, although he did stop by today. Sorry. I'm not terribly interested in buying steak from the back of a pickup truck. I guided him over to Howard's house. They like to eat. A lot.

Anyway, intrigued as you were by the title, stay a moment. It seems, since joining Rachael Harrie's Writer's Platform Building Crusade (catchy team name, that) I've been meeting some new bloggers to whom I must apologize for my lack of interaction. It's coming, but you have to be patient with me. Just ask someone who has been around awhile.

So now I find myself scrolling, quite daunted, through the list of blogs I follow over there on the right. I'm not one to use google reader or my dashboard very much. I put everything on the front page so I never have to travel too far. But it is getting harder to keep track, so I'll be organizing the blogs I follow into categories. I'm thinking I'll have some favorites. Keep keeping me interested and you might find yourself at the top of list no one else cares about.

Now I'm starting to think this sounds like a lot of work. Like writing 6000 words in a day was easy.

Keep stopping by to see if I actually do it.

6084 Words

2011-02-15T21:06:00.001-05:00

Not quite the ten thousand I was aiming for, but not too bad. I don't think I've ever written this much in one sitting. Twelve hours. I wrote through lunch. Took a shower and a dinner break but most importantly, really got to know my characters in ways I hadn't before. And they did some things I hadn't expected. Now, it seems we're going on a road trip together, which was not anticipated. Funny how things work out. I'm usually a plotter, but it seems my velour pants are working a new kind of magic.

Thanks for your encouragement. I'll be flying all morning, so I thought I should post an update before bed. Gotta be up in a few hours.

Good night all!

The Tuesday Ten-Thousand

2011-02-14T16:47:00.001-05:00

I'm about to attempt something insane. Due to the glaring inefficiencies of airline crew scheduling, I arrive in Boston tonight around midnight and don't leave until sometime early Wednesday morning. Boston is a lovely town, with much to do. But not in the middle of winter. My sun-bleached bones can't take an all day cold. But this works to my advantage. I've long complained about layovers where I feel compelled to get out and do something. In fact, I've wished for bad weather so I would have a reason to stay inside and write. Well, 28 hours in New England, in February, seems a good prescription.

Now, I realize this is ridiculous, and I hadn't planned on blogging about this until, and unless, I'd actually done it. But boasting must be backed up and now that it's out there I feel compelled. So, tomorrow I plan on writing all day. My goal: 10,000 words. Yes, it's silly. I'm more apt to write 10 words, but what the heck? If my critique partners are to be believed (although I'm not convinced they are), my writing is far better than even I realize and it is a crime I am still unpublished. I figure you have to finish something to publish something and 10,000 words is a step in that direction.

Rather than waste a perfectly good day, I will don my finest velour suit (the latest in men's leisure wear), delight in a bottomless mug of hot chocolate, and type until my characters grow tired.

Wish me well.

Joining The Crusade

2011-02-12T18:11:00.000-05:00

Don't ask me how I didn't know about Rachael Harrie over at Rach Writes, but I didn't. See, this is why I don't like making friends. Too much maintanance to keep up with your friends and all your friends new friends. But I really do like to make blog friends. Perhaps it's the absence of awkward pauses.

In that light, I have joined Rachael Harrie's Second Writers' Platform Building Crusade. This is a fabulous way to build a following and help other writers do the same. And look, it got me to use the word fabulous in a blog post. (Twice!) Now, when someone makes it really big, or only has a wee success, we, the Crusaders, can all herald them as the end all be all and then wait around for everyone to do the same for us.

So if you're interested in building your own platform, as well as getting to know lots of new bloggers like yourself, head on over and join the crusade. But hurry. It ends tonight at 11:59 EST.

Whew! Just made it.

Howard And The Paper Whacker

2011-02-09T10:46:00.000-05:00

The visit from the code police really spurred Howard to clean things up. The many sheds that had been lying in pieces since September have been reassembled. In their place lie the many pieces of the children's clubhouse that he says wants to get rid of. We'll see. I mentioned stacks of plastic containers along one side of the house. In those are seven years worth of records from a failed medical billing company. I'm not exactly sure what his plan was, but apparently the shredder exploded from strain. Next, he soaked the documents in water. Perhaps he thought they would disintegrate. They didn't. Instead they hardened into blocks. So last night, he tried to shred them with his weed whacker. Confetti flew like snow all over the yard, but the mighty weed whacker was not up to the task. It now lies alongside stacks of paper and the remains of the clubhouse.

From one mess to the next.

Howard, The Code Police And The Portugese Nanny

2011-02-07T17:17:00.002-05:00

In a delightfully ironic twist, someone has reported Howard's junkyard to the city. You'll recall that Howard serves on the Homeowners Association Board, while his wife, Moira works in the front office. This makes complaining about them rather a challenge. But today, for some inexplicable reason, on the hottest day of the year no less, Howard is mowing his lawn for the first time since November. Keep in mind that in Florida grass grows year round. Howard's lawn is quite high. Therefore, the motor on the lawn mower conks out every few feet. With a strong urge to get in a few quips, I went outside to remind him that if he didn't wait four months between mowing, it might be easier.

At this, he rushed to the fence, out of breath, demanding to know if I'd called code enforcement to report them. Despite my undying desire to have done just that, I had not. It goes against my nature as a conflict avoider. I was, however, quite pleased to learn someone had called. After all, the weedy yard is only the start. Add the stolen golf cart, now parked in between our houses, discarded furniture, bar room neon signs, televisions, refrigerators and the (thank God it's never been used) hot tub, all on the back porch, not to mention stacks of plastic containers on the other side of the house, there is plenty to complain about.

Who complained doesn't really matter. I am in their debt. But while talking to Howard and Moira (clad in her Bret Michaels headband) a few suspicions were confirmed. Mrs. Sarcasm and I had joked that they had simply stopped caring and were waiting for the bank to take the house. In fact, Howard informed us this was under serious consideration and until he decided saw no sense in upkeep.

Then Mrs. Sarcasm announced her pregnancy. I can't explain how, but that turned the conversation to their one-year-old son, Eddie. Thus, our second confirmed suspicion must serve as a warning to parents everywhere considering day care. One-year-old Eddie is as fluent in Portugese as a one-year-old can be. He speaks almost no English. In fact, they had to get an interpreter over one day just to communicate with the kid.

Having a bilingual child, especially in South Florida, is nothing but a positive. However, I hold out little hope the boy will learn English anytime soon, not from his parents anyway. That would require the same kind of initiative needed to put away the deflated bounce house in the backyard, rather than mow around it.

It's A Wonderful Life - For Someone Else

2011-02-03T13:29:00.001-05:00

It's certainly no longer Christmas time, although you might think so if you peered in my next door neighbor, Howard's, front window at his still standing tree. Don't act so surprised. After all, he's never cleaned the house. He doesn't walk the dog or the children. The weeds are so high the swing set is completely camouflaged and he now possesses a junk yard to rival Sanford and Son. The only thing surprising is that he actually found the motivation to put a Christmas tree up in the first place. Personally, I'm hoping it stays up all year.

Apparently Howard is not the only one with the holidays still on their mind. Today's post brought a not-so-much-Christmas-or-even-New Year's-but-an-end-of-January letter. So be it. At least they made the effort.

These holiday letters are always chock full of every wonderful event throughout the year, leading the reader to envy the blessed lives of the letter writers. Just once I'd like to see an honest letter, pointing out not just the mundane; ie. fifty trips to the grocery store; a couple of dentist appointments; lots of lawn mowing, raking, weeding, but also the really, really horrible things that happen throughout the year. Things like bad break-ups, health scares, job losses, dead pets and worse. I wrote one a few years ago, but never sent it. Sometimes I wish I had.

Bad things happen. I want to hear about that more than how CJ threw two touchdown passes in just one game! JUST ONE GAME!

But these letter writers need a reason to use far more than their share of exclamation points!!! I laughed aloud, when, on page 2! of the single spaced letter, the writer pointed out that she is looking for a job as an editorial consultant.

Now, I suppose I don't have much to complain about these days, as my last post proves, but my loyal followers expect a certain voice . So allow me to point out just what a horrible mother this particular letter writer is. Punctuation and grammar are all her.

Referencing the aforementioned, multi-talented CJ, she writes:

I look forward to seeing what he can do next year, but he's not sure if he wants to run cross country or do football. I'm torn. I don't like watching people run; it's really boring and guys are always throwing up at the finish line (I can't handle that, so I don't go to any meets).

About her daughter, also, apparently, a runner:

Virginia ran again this year. She is not very fast.

Way to support the kids, Mama!

It looks like she is disappointed in her husband's lack of career progression too.

Clayton is still teaching 2nd grade (he probably will be for life!)

At least Clayton has a job. And I'm guessing his second graders have a mastery of grammar yet to be demonstrated in this letter.

Lest you worry life is without thorns, take heart. About the kids, she writes:

They really do have their own little issues.

So cryptic, and also so revealing. I wonder if one of their issues is a mother who tells all their problems to the world.

Of course, there's plenty of religious nonsense throughout, but hey! this is shaping up to be the horrible letter I was hoping for. Maybe this year CJ will break his throwing arm. Or Virginia will suffer an asthma attack on the race course. What if Clayton gets demoted to 1st grade?

Suddenly I can't wait til Christmas. If you don't hear from me it's because I'm staring into Howard's window, dreaming of miserable times to come.

Coming July 2011

2011-01-31T08:00:00.006-05:00

I am going to be a father! It may not look like much here, but folks, that is my baby. It's not a Korean either, which is what really had me froggered. Without being too specific, this wasn't supposed to happen. Unfortunately, the adoption folks agree and we now have to wait a while longer before we can proceed. That is the sad part. And yes, we most certainly are continuing with our plans to adopt a Korean. Despite what someone said the other day, this does not "solve our problem." To be clear, there was no problem. This baby is a bonus. An older brother or sister for our Korean, whoever that ends up being.

I must admit it's been a challenging shift in thinking. We'd been preparing for a one-year-old all this time, for whom I was imagining a personality, who had already taken up residence in our hearts and who is, (or will be) already our child. It's been a strange transition, but each day brings more excitement. And more fear.

One-year-olds are durable. Newborns, it seems, are quite different. And I fear far more delicate. I worry I will break it. I suppose I will pick up some tips along the way.

Anyway, that's the big news. Not a book deal or agent representation. Just something a little better.

Major Announcement Monday

2011-01-28T15:13:00.000-05:00

Be sure to check back to find out why I was froggered.

Nathan Bransford's First Paragraph Challenge

2011-01-25T14:36:00.000-05:00

I'm not normally one to link to contests, but for aspiring writers, more specifically, querying aspiring writers, this is a good one to check out. No need to enter (although I did; entry #628 out of thus far 724 entries) but it is a great lesson in humility for anyone wondering why you might have gotten that rejection letter, or, more likely, no response at all. It gives a new appreciation for what agents and editors face on a daily basis. Just reading through a few of them, I saw how fast that no could pop onto an agent's lips. Some were interesting enough I clicked the link to the author's blog, which I think is pretty good.

At any rate, you should check it out. But be warned, you may start to question everything you believe about your own writing.

The Pirate In Me

2011-01-24T11:18:00.000-05:00

Rarely do I have nice things to say about Puerto Rico. I've spent a bit too much time there, ya see? But today, two things struck me as worthy.

1. The weather was nice today. Not too hot, not too cool. Just right.

2. Docked in front of my hotel is a replica of the HMS Bounty, built in 1960 for the film, Mutiny on the Bounty and later used in other pictures, including some recent drivel starring Johnny Depp.

Having written a book about pirates, I've often regretted never actually stepping foot aboard a real pirate ship, which I thought would have made pretty cool research.

Avast! Today me ship came in. Thar be some treasure below, too! A (blurry) glimpse of me.

The No-Denim Condominium

2011-01-17T12:38:00.000-05:00

Life in Florida can scarcely be lived without encountering the homeowner's association. It is an unnecessary evil that, to date, I have yet to find a way around. My own hillbilly, hoarding, white trash, NASCAR-loving (I see that was rather redundant) neighbors have not only insinuated themselves onto our board, but they also work in the front office, taking complaints from people who might want to complain about their NASCAR-loving neighbors. As such, I have but one option when it comes to maintaining at least some semblance of re-sale value. Hence, I spend the day planting privacy hedges.

However, even our Nazi regime hasn't instigated this rule, which comes from our stuck up neighbors to the far west in Naples, Florida. It seems there is an association over there that does not allow denim to be worn within its gates. That's right, no jeans, no jean shorts, jean jackets, jean skirts, jean blouses and for god's sake, no jean hats. I can not fathom the type of people who prefer this kind of living, but then, I suppose they probably can't fathom me. There is, apparently, one caveat. Jeans can be worn only to walk to one's car, but they must then vacate the premises immediately. No detours to the Dumpster, or returning to one's home lest they've forgotten something. In both cases, a change of attire is mandatory.

You may think I'm making this up, but if you lived down here you would be less surprised. Don't forget, I live in a neighborhood with a three gate entry system that makes it more challenging for residents to enter than guests. (Thank you Howard.) In fact, impatient people smash through the gates so often they are now wrapped in Nerf.

I can, however, come and go as I please in whatever I desire. This pleases me, because it has recently been made socially acceptable for men to wear velour suits. I bought one in every color and will be wearing one when I go condo shopping in Naples.

It Just Takes One Yes

2011-01-12T15:42:00.000-05:00

So says the latest agent to reject me, in what they apologized for as a rather informal standard rejection. I agree. It was rather standard. And then came the standard encouragement, "keep at it, it only takes one yes." Once again, I agree. My question: If it only takes one yes, why are all these agents so darn stingy with them?

I'm considering shelving this project for a while. Not that I think it sucks, but it does have life-sucking power. As the lady said, I sent out 20 queries and got back 21 rejections. Whilst I know many of you have endured far more, one must ask when enough is enough.

Where is that one, elusive yes?

Free With Your $80 Purchase

2011-01-10T14:52:00.000-05:00

Last night, flying into Orlando, I spied a colorfully bright explosion out my genuine airline pilot window. Must be Disney's nightly fireworks display, I thought, and rested my head in my hands to enjoy. It was 9 PM. At 9:03 it was over. A few minutes later, another began a short distance from the first. It was Epcot, where a fountain of liquid fire shot toward the sky. This lasted all of two minutes. I was bummed. Then I thought of all the poor saps who schlepped their entire broods, kids included, shelling out hundreds of dollars (at $80 per person) and thinking they were getting such a great deal. Sure, the parks are crowded. The food is overpriced. The kids don't know how to behave. Parking is $14 per vehicle. But at least the fireworks are free. Just don't blink.

Querying Next Monday

2011-01-06T11:12:00.003-05:00

A certain agent has returned from the holidays deluged in an avalanche of queries from which they are not expected to dig out until Monday. This is even stated on their blog.

"If I were a writer, I’d wait and send next Monday when we are back to normal levels."

Now, I took advantage of the holiday break, I knew this agent was taking, in order to read some of the books they represent in my genre. Turns out I liked them both so, win for me. If they take me as a client, win win.

But it seems to me, if everyone takes this agent's advice and waits until Monday, will they not be once again deluged in yet another avalanche of queries from which they will need to be rescued? Alas, my query needs to be a gleaming shovel to which they can latch on and be pulled from the mire of talentless hacks mucking up the slopes before them. Yes, I will clear a path that leads them to the promised land of multiple offers, nay, a bidding war; a three picture deal and endless speaking engagements worldwide. Oprah will devote a show on her new network just to me. Not just a show, an award winning series that delves deep into the mind of my literary and creative genius. College courses will be offered. My avatar will become a postage stamp. A holiday will be named in my honor. They will read my query and give thanks that Monday has come.

Or I'll probably get another form rejection. Either way, Monday's coming up. I better write the thing.

As Birthdays Go...

2011-01-02T16:52:00.000-05:00

This one has been rather boring. Unable to get out of work, (a sacrifice for an airline pilot born the day after New Years) I've been holed up in an Atlanta hotel all day to rest for the most godawful flying there is. Who in their right mind is so desperate to get to Fort Myers, Florida they will have purchased tickets on a flight departing Chicago after midnight?

I did manage to finish a draft on a short story, and eat way too much at a Brazilian steakhouse. Now, sadly, I must fly.

Alas, the flight attendants brought me cake. All is right with the world.

A Roller Coaster Year - 200th Post

2010-12-30T13:31:00.000-05:00

I've been told recently that I haven't been blogging enough. Perhaps. But the reason is I haven't had a great deal to say. Other things have occupied my mind. Things over which I am still a bit froggered.

However, in the interest of keeping my fanbase, here are ten random thoughts to close the year.

Blogging is a wonderful way to meet new friends. It is a great place to make yourself known. And, it seems, there are at least a few people who like me. However, I think I like the real world better. Perhaps that's why I haven't been around as much of late.

Writing, it turns out, is easy. Everything after is hard. And discouraging. I may not get an agent next year. I very likely won't get published. So be it. Bigger things are coming.

No matter how bad things seem, lots of folks have it much worse.

Reading is fun. iPad makes it funner. My kids will read. A lot.

One of my favorite words is rather. I rather enjoy rather. Others include, flummoxed, untoward, and quite.

I can no longer abide my neighbors and finally planted privacy hedges. I haven't written about them recently because it is quite tempting to post pictures of the inside of their hoarding hole of a home. That would be untoward.

Lest (another favorite) you ever wondered what I look like, I am one of these guys.

I rather like my job. It's full of kooks. Great research material for a writer.

I will turn 38 in a few days. All my hair is still the original color.

I am going to be somebody's dad. That's pretty cool.

2010 has been one roller coaster of a year. It's had some highs, quite a few lows and one extreme WTF element. As we pull into the station something new is about to open in another part of the park. It looks like a good one. I can't wait to ride it.

Happy New Year!

Merry Christmas, Everyone!

2010-12-24T09:07:00.000-05:00

My friend Prissy Bower, having forgotten he lived in South Florida for a number of years, asked if people down here put up inflatable (and dare I say lazy) Christmas decorations.

Yes. Yes they do.

Merry Christmas everyone!

So Now What Do I Do?

2010-12-20T18:00:00.000-05:00

I've been reading some of the books a certain agent I want to query represents. One I liked. The other, I've just started, but so far...meh!

Assuming I get through it, and find that this agent is, in fact, a good fit, then what? What are we supposed to say in our queries to let these agents know we've actually done our homework, without coming right out and saying it, and at the same time, not taking away precious words about our own books?

Work That Kills

2010-12-18T14:45:00.001-05:00

Generally speaking, most airline pilots are, by nature, a lazy lot. This is not to say they won't go out of their way to avoid working hard work. While this may sound contradictory, it should be noted that any self-respecting pilot will do as much as possible to ensure they work as little as they can.

It is simply in the biology that these souls are unable to maintain monotony for great lengths. And by great lengths, any thing longer than three hours counts.
This is why it is so darned hard for these people who, once a year, for three days, are forced to endure exhaustive and seemingly endless slide presentations and lectures on topics they have secreted to the recesses of their brain during the preceding twelve months.

Alas, annual recurrent training rears it's ugly head. How people who work real jobs do this on a daily basis is a mystery. After ten hours of sheer boredom, followed by rush hour traffic, barely time to eat dinner, and maybe a few minutes to relax in front of the Telly, there is no time for anything more than sleep. Life must wait. At least until all the paperwork is filled out.

For those whose lives resemble this, you have my pity. Good God, it's only three days. Anything more and you would have me at the end of a rope.

No Blog Love

2010-12-14T10:31:00.000-05:00

Notice the lack of activity here lately? I've been utterly unmotivated. To write, to blog, to pretty much anything. Ideas still come. It's just usually while I'm working. I'll jot down notes, but I guess it's frowned upon to pull out the laptop and whip off a chapter while cruising along at 39,000 feet. So what good is an autopilot?

The truth is I'm much more distracted by something else lately, which I will explain at some point, shedding light on why I was so froggered a few weeks back.

The good news, however, is another rejection over the weekend. How is that good, you ask? It's been so long since I got any kind of response to a query, I was once again reminded I am supposed to be a writer.

When It Keeps Getting Better

2010-12-06T15:42:00.001-05:00

Question for the day:

What does it mean when your critique partners say your latest bit is your best writing yet?

A compliment, for sure, but it leaves me wondering just how godawful everything that came before surely must be.

Does anyone else have this problem accepting praise?

Let It Be. Please. Please Let It Be.

2010-12-04T12:19:00.004-05:00

If you haven't been to Awkward Family Photos, do stop by. It's good for a daily laugh at, well, awkward family photos. Today, however, they posted this video. It's a bit different and left me with a few questions.

1. How can Lou Ferigno, who is deaf, keep better time than speed skater Dan Jansen?
2. When did Kelly McGillis become a woman again?
3. Why? Oh, why?

Library Frustration

2010-11-30T11:59:00.001-05:00

What is it about old books that fosters the weird in both used bookstore owners and librarians? It seems these places are a haven for the socially awkward. And the power trip -- oh boy!

"I've got a couple of books on hold," I said, presenting my library card to a man so thin he must have been steam cleaned while clothed, subsequently hung out to dry, and then blown off the line only to land on his librarian stool.

"Did you get a call?" he shouted, from behind a steel bookshelf.

"A couple of days ago."

There was some mad shuffling. His shaking hands flew above the shelf and then smacked at his sides.

"Howe," he said. "We got anything for MC Howe?"

"Right here," said another one, wearing baggy pajama pants and a squared off afro, circa 1992. He waved the books at me as he brought them over. "It was more than a couple days."

"It was Wednesday," I said.

"You only get five days," he glared

"Okay," I said. "You called Wednesday. Thursday was Thanksgiving. You were closed on Friday."

"We was open Saturday."

"I was out of town."

"Monday."

"I'm here today. Are those my books in your hand?"

"They might well have been shipped off."

"I suppose, but it seems they weren't."

"Cause you were lucky. You only get five days."

"So I've heard. I'm blessing my stars. Can I have my books?"

And now I don't even want to read them.

Joe Gets Married

2010-11-26T17:46:00.000-05:00

My friend Col. Joe is getting married. Whether that is a good idea will play out later. Joe is something of a stickler for details having retired after a 30 year Air Force career, during which he worked with Colin Powell on the Joint Chiefs of Staff. As you might imagine, The Colonel's wedding has been planned with military precision. My favorite parts are in red, with my comments in blue.

WEDDING SCHEDULE

0900 LUCY’S ATTENDANTS MEET -TRACY

0900 MEN MEET RESTAUR IN SoG -JOE,TOM,JOHN,JIM,ROD,NICK,MIKE

0900 CHECK ROOM, CAKE, GAZEBO -JOE,TOM,NICK,JOHN,JIMMY,MIKE

0930 FRONT DOOR -SAME, JENNIFER,SCOTT,JEFF

0945 TAKE PICTURES OF ARIVALS -NICK, JENNIFER,ZYNKO

1030 ESCORT ARRIVEES -JOHN, TOM, JIMMY,MIKE

1030 SET UP MUSIC -RODNEY, TRAVIS, PASTOR, ZYNKO

1055 ARRANGE GRANDKIDS -TRACY, MELISSA, TIFFANY

The wedding is at Disney World. Joe promised the grandkids will be dressed as the seven dwarfs

1055 PLAY MUSIC -NICK ZYNKO

1100 WALK DOWN THE AISLE - LUCY, JOE, JIMMY,MIKE

1100 RINGBEARERS -JACOB,JUSTIN,JACK,JOSHUA

1100 FLOWERGIRLS -CHLOE,MAYA,CLAIRE

1100 PERFORM CEREMONY -TRAVIS, PASTOR KING

1110 JOE KISSES LUCY

1115 ENTIRE GROUP PICTURE -NICK, PASTOR, JENNIFER

Quick ceremony. Joe doesn't fool around.

1120 INDIVIDUAL PICTURES -NICK, JENNIFER

1120 ESCORT GROUPS TO ROOM -JOHN, JIMMY, TOM, SCOTT,MIKE

1120 PLAY MUSIC -RODNEY

1130 DOORS OPEN TO RECEPTION -STAFF/TOM/JOHN

1200PLAY CHRIS BROWN SONG -RODNEY

WALK KIDS DOWN -TRACY, MELISSA, TIFFANY, CHERIE, ANN, TONYA

1215 BRIDE ENTERS -SHERRY/NJ, TRACY

1215 GUEST REGISTER -SHERRY/NJ

1230 EVERYONE EATS -JOHN/RODNEY ANNOUNCE

Eat fast. The next 15 minutes are action packed.

1230 PARENTS TOAST -JIMMY

1245 BEST MAN’S TOAST -TOM

1235 JOE’S TOAST

1240 LUCY’S TOAST

1240 TRACY/MIKE, JOHN SPEAK

1245 FIRST DANCE -JOE, LUCY, RODNEY

1245 TABLE WALK -JOE, TOM, NICK, JOHN, JIMMY,JENNIFER

Apparently Rodney, who I believe is the DJ, will take over dancing with Lucy, since Joe is scheduled for the table walk during the first dance.

1300 KIDS GAMES -TRACY, MEL, TIF, CHERIE, ANN,TONYA

1345 CUT THE CAKE -JOE/LUCY

1350 THANKS TO ALL -JOE/LUCY

Hope you enjoyed your 5 minute cake. Wedding's over.

1355 DISTRIBUTE BUBBLES -TRACY,TONYA

1355 TOSS THE BRIDAL GUMMIES -LUCY MAIDENS

1356 ASSEMBLE KIDS TO BLOW BUBBLES

Let's hope those bridal gummies don't distract the kids. They've only got one minute to assemble for bubbles.

1400 WEDDING PARTY DEPARTS.

Turkey And Training Day

2010-11-22T19:16:00.000-05:00

Where have I been? Nowhere special. I just haven't had much to blog about. This week being Thanksgiving, I suppose I should be grateful I won't be spending it alone in some generic hotel in some generic city. However, the reason I am not is that my annual recurrent training falls on Thanksgiving day. In a 24 hour, 365 days a year industry there are no holidays.

So while I've been studying my arse off in hopes of keeping my job, I haven't done any writing in the past month. And the research I need to invest in querying is too daunting right now. Come Friday afternoon all should return to normal, assuming I don't spiral down in a terrific crash of career threatening proportions.

Although that would leave me with more time to write.

Happy Thanksgiving Everyone!

The Used Bookstore

2010-11-16T14:04:00.001-05:00

To make room for our Korean, we spent the weekend clearing out closets and emptying bookshelves, ending up with dozens upon dozens of books. So, I headed to the used bookstore for an encounter with what must have been the inspiration for The Simpsons' Comic Book Guy.

"Do you buy books?" I asked, thinking it was a stupid question. After all, where else would they get their inventory?

"Well we don't really buy books," he said, looking up at me, while tilting his head down.

What followed was a ten minute explanation of the bookstore's purchase for credit program, wherein the seller of said books may offer their goods for store credit, equal in value to no less than half the store price of a previously owned and pre-read book, so long as the previously owned book is sold at a 50% discount on the original cover price, and credit cannot be combined for multiple purchases.

"Um, okay," I said, my head spinning. "I've got some books for you."

"We're not taking any books."

"What?" I said, while the store's credit policy repeated on a loop in my head.

"We're well stocked. And we're not doing all that well."

"Why didn't you say that when I first came in here?"

He groaned. "It's our policy."

"So you don't want any of my books?"

He sighed. Irritation dripped from his pointy beard. "What have you got?"

"I've got fiction, non-fiction, hardcover, paperback. You name it. I've got it all."

"What? A box? Two?"

"Six."

"Well, you can bring in A box. I'll look through it."

This didn't seem promising, but I'd come all this way. I was walking out of there with some store credit, so I picked the best looking box of the bunch, certain that when he saw what I had, he'd demand all the rest. He ran his hand over the lot pretty quickly, setting aside a Spanish-English dictionary and one other small paperback. Taking the two books over to his computer he spend the next several minutes staring at the screen, while I waited patiently. Then, he started staring at me, with haughty eyes. Was he waiting for me to say something? To ask for help? Had he forgotten I was the one he was waiting for? I stared straight back.

Perhaps a mistake.

"I can offer you credit on these two books," he announced.

Only two?! Out of the dozens I had carefully packaged and transported.

TWO? For a measly half-credit on the store reduced price of 50% off the original cover price but limited to a cash only purchase not to be combined so I still have to shell out money from my own pocket?

"I mean," he offered. "If you want I can look through your other boxes. This didn't take long."

I mulled it over for about half a second and started nodding.

"Tell you what," I said. "Give me my two books back."

He shrugged and handed them over. I donated all my books to the local library, to be enjoyed by the masses free of charge. And I get a lovely tax credit.

Not surprised the used bookstore isn't doing so well.

Advice You Can Trust?

2010-11-13T21:17:00.000-05:00

I'm not terribly electrically minded, but I did a bit of re-wiring today. Since I know just enough to let go after it starts tingling, I turned to a reliable source for tips - the Internet, of course. I actually found what seemed like rather sage advice, citing Amps and volts and mathematical equations I had no idea lived in the world of electrical schematics.

It was a very helpful forum, answering some seriously technical questions. And then came the following:

"to get the most productivity out of your grow room..."

Yep. I had stumbled onto a marijuana forum, leaving me to wonder if this was advice worth taking. But I figured this dude likely spent a while pondering this wiring dilemma. So, what the heck? He sounded like a pro. I'll know for sure if my house turns up on those heat sensing devices used to find grow houses.

Maybe that's how I'll end up with a book deal. Infamy seems to be the key. Do something stupid, illegal, give birth to sextuplets, etc...

The good news is yesterday's fortune cookie promised fame and fortune are coming my way. The bad news is I don't believe in superstition. I mean, I not dumb enough to throw the thing away. Then it wouldn't come true. Instead I locked it in my safe. Just in case there's an electrical fire, which there has not been yet, knock on wood.

I Am Froggered

2010-11-08T08:36:00.000-05:00

When dazed seems inadequate, and confused just won't do; when stunned is off the radar and you find yourself in that place that lies beyond the other side of sense, where the world rushes past at light speed and you shrink down to a singularity, surrounded by a protective, mind-numbing haze that consists of a single question on an endless loop - WTF? - you need a new word.

That word is froggered

Remember the 80s video game where you had to maneuver a frog across a busy street and then over a rushing river, fraught with danger in the form of alligators, snakes and other frog squashing things? Each level got progressively harder. The cars whizzed by faster. The river sped up. As you got deeper into the game, the chances of frogger successfully reaching his destination grew slimmer. Eventually, SPLAT!

Still, mere mortals could get pretty far before becoming road kill. But then, there was another level, one of such ludicrous speed the programmers were the only ones to attempt it, and then, only as a joke. They knew that to include this level in the game would only cause the players to smash the cartridge with a hammer, lest they believe they were actually expected to attempt such inanity.

And so, the word froggered must enter our vocabulary, for I have reached such a place and no existing words cover it. Somehow, I beat the game without realizing I was even playing.

It should not have happened. It could not have happened. And yet it has.

I'm sorry I can't say more.

Please don't ask.

I am much too froggered.

Matt's Final Post

2010-11-04T12:20:00.000-04:00

No, I'm not closing the blog, but like Clark Kent wearing glasses, I'm taking on an alter-ego. I've been thinking about this for a while and couldn't really come up with a reason not to do this now. In fact, I've just sent my first query as my other self, so now it seems urgent.

Here's the deal:

Publishing is a tough business to break into. While ultimately it will be my writing that fails or succeeds, I don't need any additional obstacles in my way. Someone once said, "to make it as a writer you've got to take what someone else did successfully and copy it." Well, someone once thought she might have an easier time if people didn't know she was a woman, so she used her initials and fooled the whole world hundreds of millions of times over.

Okay. I'll try that.

From what I can tell, without any scientific research, it's now more of a challenge for men to get published than women. So, rather than announcing that I am a man, although, I am announcing it here, I'm adopting a pen name, which seemed like a good idea anyway, since my last name doesn't exactly roll off the tongue. Besides, I've written some not so flattering things about real people. Best to stay incognito. So, taking my initials, and my wife's maiden name, allow me to introduce myself.

Hello. My name is MC Howe. I wrote a middle grade adventure about pirates. I'm working on a ghost story, a YA zombie teen angst novel, and someday I'll get back to the teacher who falls in love with a nun.

Now I have to fix that damn banner at the top of the page.

Get Down Goblin

2010-10-30T16:16:00.003-04:00

by Jan Teri

Happy Halloween!

My Query - Again

2010-10-29T12:17:00.000-04:00

Fewer cliches, fewer words (223 down from 262), some different words, here is lucky version 13.

Twelve-year-old Skully longs for the kind of excitement missing from his family's stuffy old mansion. The day he finally meets his father, the abhorred pirate, Captain ‘Mad Grave’ Smith, Skully embarks on an adventure destined for a horrible end—his own.

Skully never heard of a long dead ruler named Grimstoke until his mom died protecting the secrets of his accursed ring. Taking refuge among pirates, Skully finds Captain Smith isn’t such a bad guy after all. But when Grimstoke’s ring ‘accidentally’ finds its way onto Skully’s finger, his dad ends up cursed. Grimstoke’s evil spirit possesses Captain Smith and starts sucking souls from the inhabitants of pirate-controlled San Iguana. Grimstoke will only last so long in Captain Smith’s body. As Grimstoke’s last living descendent, Skully possesses the one thing that can prevent his dad’s death. Torn by his dad’s fate and guilt over his mom’s death, running away looks pretty good. But souls are disappearing fast. The only way to save everyone is to give Grimstoke what he needs—Skully’s soul.

SKULLY THE PIRATE AND GRIMSTOKE'S CURSE is an upper middle grade adventure sprinkled with humor and a dash of paranormal fantasy. It is complete at 60,000 words. I am a member of SCBWI and several critique groups. Thank you for your time and consideration. I look forward to hearing from you.

My Query

2010-10-27T10:08:00.000-04:00

Nervous about putting this out for the masses? No. My mother-in-law is visiting for a week and a half. Sharing my query is a piece of cake.

Just remember, I'm fragile...

Dear Agent,

Blah, blah, blah...

Twelve-year-old Skully longs for the kind of excitement he’s been denied living in his grandfather’s mansion. The day he finally meets his father, the abhorred pirate, Captain ‘Mad Grave’ Smith, Skully embarks on an adventure destined for a horrible end—his own.

Skully never heard of a long dead ruler named Grimstoke until his mother died protecting the secrets of Grimstoke’s accursed ring. With no choice but to take refuge among pirates, Skully realizes Captain Smith isn’t such a bad guy after all. But his newfound father soon falls under the ring’s curse. Grimstoke’s evil spirit possesses Captain Smith and begins sucking souls from the inhabitants of pirate-controlled San Iguana. But Grimstoke will only last so long in Captain Smith’s body. As Grimstoke’s last living descendent, Skully possesses the one thing that can prevent his father’s death, but the cost will be high. Torn by his father’s fate, and guilt over his mother’s death, running away looks pretty good, but Grimstoke always finds him and souls are disappearing fast. It seems it’s up to Skully to save everyone. The only way to do that, is to give Grimstoke what he needs—Skully’s soul.

SKULLY THE PIRATE AND GRIMSTOKE'S CURSE is an upper middle grade adventure sprinkled with humor and a dash of paranormal fantasy. It is complete at 60,000 words. I am a member of SCBWI and several critique groups, as well as the author of the wildly popular (okay, that might be a stretch) blog, Pensive Sarcasm. Thank you for your time and consideration. I look forward to hearing from you.

Back Together Again

2010-10-26T16:26:00.000-04:00

Thanks for all your kind words last week. I'm feeling much better now. Amazing what a few days on the road with nothing to do can accomplish. I keep trying to write something new, but not much headway there. Instead, I spent the day honing my synopsis. Frustrating, but more and more agents want to see these things. A brief synopsis, they call it. How brief? Not clear. I ended up with 1700 single spaced words on three pages. How does that sound?

And I'm thinking of posting my query. Anyone want to read it?

I'm Falling Apart

2010-10-22T15:58:00.001-04:00

What a horrible day I'm having. I've been waking up around six AM all week. Not because I've been working. Six comes, I'm done. Yesterday seemed promising, but I'd committed to flying with my friend Joe. I hadn't been in a small plane in years, and didn't really want to go. And guess what? Small planes behave much differently from large, automated ones.

Then, today, waking early again, I checked email on my iPod. Another rejection. Normally, I shrug them off, but this was the earliest I've ever gotten one. To start the day with it was not good.

I'm depressed. Ready to quit. Wasting my time. The Mrs. and I took a good long walk, which is usually therapeutic. She's good for stuff like that. Listening to me whine about why I'm bothering with all this when I have a very good job and why can't I just be happy with that? It was decided writing is my passion. That which I do for free. For love. With or without recognition. Which should be something.

But at the moment, it isn't. Because walking six miles on my feet generally results in some sorry-ass pain.

I have heel spurs -- little hooks of bone on the bottom of each foot, straining tendons that aren't designed to strain. Standard treatment is a cortisone shot, which was scheduled pre-walk. Pre-rejection. A four inch needle plunged into my heel. Slowly, ever so slowly, the cortisone seeped into the tissue. Round and round, twisting and pushing, the needle found more and more nerves to terrorize.

The result: Nothing. Typical. I'm the 1% of people typical treatments don't work on.

And November is looming. I hate November. I'll be working Thanksgiving. Again. I have to study all month for my checkride. Again. So I don't lose my job and have the privilege of working on Thanksgiving taken away. This November, Joe is getting married. At Disney World. Thanksgiving weekend. I can't think of a worse place to go at a worse time. I want to do NaNo. Too much going on.

Life sucks.

Something Only You Can Write

2010-10-19T11:07:00.000-04:00

I came across an agent's website the other day, in which she described what she wanted to see in a query letter. It was the standard stuff, until she came to the bio section. She was quite adamant that your query should include why you are the only person who could have written your book.

That line really struck me. I'm no expert in the things I write. I think I'm a pretty good storyteller, but beyond the fact I was the one who came up with it, I couldn't think of a decent reason I was the only one who could write my book. So I started thinking about what I am an expert in. Not much, but there is one thing I do know about probably better than most other writers. And pretty quickly a new story started forming. It's just a lump of wet clay right now, and who knows what it will end up looking like, but I've often thought, if I could include some expertise in my bio, it might make a difference when querying.

Having said all that, I still need to tell a good story. And I still need to love the story, otherwise it won't be very good. So, with NaNo coming up, I may participate after all. Of course, I also have my recurrent check ride, which has yet to be scheduled, but will be some time in November. So I'll be doing a lot of studying, but you can also consider it research for my next book.

...And Stop Calling Me Matthew

2010-10-17T15:43:00.001-04:00

My irritation level has soared as high as my plane over the past three days. I can normally tell within 30 seconds whether or not I can stand someone, and while my partner is nice enough, he keeps calling me Matthew. This despite introducing myself as Matt, to him and everyone we've both met. This tells me he hasn't been paying attention to anything, but is reading my ID badge.

I thought I had it licked when the flight attendant, who calls me Matt, yelled 'Matthew' to get my attention. The ID reader commented, "You said that like you really know him."

Aha! An opening.

"Actually," I said. "People who really know me call me Matt."

No effect. Frustrating, but I may be to blame. After all, I once had a neighbor who called me Dwayne for two years. After a while, there's no correcting it without making yourself look like an idiot.

Alas, this trip ends tomorrow. No more Matthew. No more bad jokes or spoken word renditions of obscure songs. And for dinner tonight, Big Boy.

Now, I'm very excited about Big Boy. It's one of those things you take for granted until you move across the country and can't get it anymore. And it's right next to the hotel.

But he says, "We don't have to decide right now, We'll figure it out. We can find someplace nice."

He can do what wants.

Matthew's going to Big Boy.

Thanks For The Funny

2010-10-14T13:55:00.003-04:00

The first rejection came in today. From an agent I'd assigned to the non-response rejection pile after a year of nothing. I queried him again, using the same email address from last time. Only this time it bounced back as a bad address. Apparently one missing letter makes all the difference. Oops.

So this time, having read an interview in which he laments the success of Stephanie Meyer against the odds every other writer faces, I threw in what I thought was a funny line referencing what he'd said. The rejection came back as follows:

Thanks for the funny query letter. I'm afraid this is not what I'm looking for, but I wish you much all the same with your agent search.

At first I thought he appreciated my sense of humor. Then, like any thinks-he's-a-good writer, examining the long corridor of rejection, I began to wonder what he really thought was funny. Was it the query itself? The heart of it? Did he find it laughable that someone would not only construct such an abominable collection of words, but that they would send it to an expert, who no doubt called in every member of his staff for a group guffaw, forwarded it to every agent and editor in publishing, posted it on a myriad of social networking sites, and is most certainly basing an entire lecture series on that one horrific letter?

Sadly, I may never know. Much as I may never understand the last line - I wish you much all the same...

Huh?

At least it's not just me who can't write.

In happier news, today is Mrs. Sarcasm's birthday. If you come across her, wish her

생일 축하

No Response

2010-10-13T13:12:00.001-04:00

I've been through the query ringer before. Now, as I dive back through, and conduct my research yet again, I find a good deal of agents these days subscribing to the non-response method of rejection. While I can fully appreciate the amount of work these folks do, and reading hundreds of queries per week, in addition to any manuscripts they have, plus editing, and actually selling these projects, certainly counts as busy work, I can't for the life of me understand this non-repsonse.

How hard can it be to set up an automatic I DON'T LIKE IT email. Heck, just have your interns do it. I've been scouring the threads on Absolute Write and by gum, some folks are complaining they even get no response to fulls and partials. Seriously, what gives? You mean to say you're going to take the time to read something that you requested knowing full well that author is biting their nails just waiting to know what you think, and then...nothing.

But we, the querying writers, are expected to maintain professionalism at all costs.

Now, this may seem like an angry rant, and I suppose it is, but it's something of a two way street. When I see that no response is a no, I lean toward no query. Of course, leaning is still going, it only results in a more crooked path. In other words, I still query, because I still want that agent, and lets face it, if we think we're good enough to query, we certainly don't expect rejection.

Except that we do. And that part really sucks. In the land of the query, a ten percent request rate is pretty good. Without trying too hard, I can't think of too many other circumstances where abysmal failure is considered success. But I suppose that's something to write about.

It Turns Out I Am A Moron

2010-10-11T10:00:00.001-04:00

So I'm not writing 10,000 words this week, at least not yet, but I am sending queries. And after all that work, and all that research, and knowing all the stupid things people do, I went and did one.

Getting an agent's name wrong in a query is often regarded by agents as a surefire path to rejection. I, of course, to ensure staying on the the path, not only put the name of the agency owner in my salutation, rather than the actual agent's name, which I knew, and had even spelled wrong a few times whilst Googling, I also sent it to the wrong email address.

So I followed up with a quick apology, letting said agent know I was resending my query to the proper address. That's when I noticed I'd addressed the first, and subsequent second, query incorrectly. So I sent another one, apologizing yet again.

I expect after four emails, in the span of two minutes, this particular agent will either see through to my gritty determination, or will request a restraining order.

Let's just say, I'm moving on...

I'm Thinking Of A Challenge

2010-10-07T23:33:00.000-04:00

How about ten thousand words in a week?

As an airline pilot, I have lots of downtime in hotels. I'm on a four day trip right now that could almost result in ten thousand words a day. Two long layovers in Washington DC followed by an even longer layover in Detroit. The problem is I have friends and family in both places. And it's not acting like October up here, which means Im not getting any writing done on this trip.

So I'm thinking next week, or some time in the coming weeks, I will challenge myself to write ten thousand words in one week's time. The kind of momentum that would result in would be awesome. I just read an article with Danielle Steele where they asked which of her 113 books was her favorite.

Excuse me? What the frak did they just say?

113 books? In one adult lifetime?

And they must not suck either because apparently half a billion people have read them.

So I'm thinking ten thousand in a week wouldn't be a bad start.

Anyone game?

The First Query Is Away

2010-10-05T09:11:00.000-04:00

And...it came back pretty quick. Not a rejection. Instead, I got an auto reply that the agent in question is on personal leave for a couple of months and for further assistance please contact so and so.

So and so the question is, who is so and so? Another agent? What about the agent I want? The one I researched and fell in love with. Who I know, without a shadow of a doubt, will fall equally in love with my story.

And what do I say to so and so? Do I forward my query and say, I really wanted her, but I guess you'll do? Or maybe so and so is the agent's assistant. Perhaps all queries are being directed her way anyhow. But if that's so, why direct me to her for further assistance?

And, suppose I was already a client of this agent, but my book hadn't been sold yet? What happens during these months of personal leave? Does my book go on leave with her? Or is so and so now out trying to sell the book someone else fell in love with?

Oh I'm going nuts!

Time to send the next batch out.

Halloween Is Around The Corner

2010-10-01T17:16:00.003-04:00

And this is in my backyard.

Hungry for a bee...

It eats the bee. And, for good measure, a sense of proportion.

And in writing news...

Today is the last day of Patti Nielson's Keep Track of How Much Time You Spend Writing Blogfest. My total for the week - About 9 hours.

With lots of helpful suggestions, my query is ready to go. And I wrote such a good query, it helped hone my story just a wee bit better. I figure I'll wait til Monday morning. Who reads queries on Friday night?

Three Questions For Query Writers

2010-09-28T11:30:00.000-04:00

Thank heavens for fresh eyes, because mine don't know what they're looking at. After a few attempts at a query I've been directed to answer three questions that ought to help anyone attempting to write one of these godawful things. As yet, I have only looked at them with the vaguest of answers in mind.
There's more here, but it boils down to this:

What does your protagonist want?
What does s/he have to do to get it?
What happens if s/he fails to get what she wants? (the stakes)

Two And A Half Hours

2010-09-27T15:58:00.001-04:00

That's how long I spent revising my query today, after comments from Absolute Write. So, I've reposted the new version, if anyone cares to look at it. Thanks for everyone's help.

And why am I telling you how long I spent writing? Because there's a blogfest going on. It's not too late to join. Just visit Patti Nielson to sign up. It's pretty simple. All this week, keep track of how much time you spend writing. That's it.

I Am The Elite 2%

2010-09-26T20:49:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, I attended a class for children's and YA writers. A lot of it was introductory stuff I already knew, but a few of the tidbits I wrote down:

You have to write one million bad words before you can write one good one.
Writers come in one of two forms

Plotters - extensive outliners
Pantsers - make it up as they go

Three things every writer must have:

Professionalism
Optimism
A thick skin

In order to get published:

Write something no one has ever written before. Or,
Write a familiar story better than everyone you're competing against.

81% of Americans say they have a book in them.
2% actually write one.
In an odd coincidence, 2% of Americans are also commercial pilots.

So how do you like that?

And, it turns out, the writer running the class is represented by an agent who rejected my full manuscript about a year ago, and who, after extensive re-writes, I've decided to query again. I posted it on Aboslute Write in Query Letter Hell. If you have a moment, let me know what you think, either there, or in the comments here.

Synopsis Update

2010-09-23T12:10:00.002-04:00

One page done!

Damn it I have to go to work again.

Cruising Along

2010-09-21T23:14:00.000-04:00

I'm on a four day trip with long layovers. Perfect for writing. I spent the whole day in Atlantic City fixing some minor issues associated with my new first chapter. Pretty much everything fits and I have a good chunk of time tomorrow in Fort Myers before work to get the thing ship-shape.

Now, here are the problems.

1. It's been super nice all week. I hate looking outside at picture perfect days, especially when there are so few of them left before winter takes hold. And that really is a problem. I wish it was winter already. Then, I would have a perfect excuse to stay in and write. The real problem, however, is...

2. Sometimes I get on such a roll, I can't stop. I'm cranking along, typing furiously, making lots and lots of headway. And then, all of a sudden, some other committment comes on like a Mack Truck hitting me head on and I have to stop. It happened today. Work. Bummer.

I actually like my job, but it can be pretty boring. Thankfully, I've recently discovered a game for my iTouch called Hungry Shark. I'm discovering all kinds of nifty hidden things the more I play. And that two and a half hour flight really soars by.

I know, I know, your thinking, Matt, you shouldn't be playing games while you're flying the plane. And you're right. That's a great time for writing. But there are two of us up there, and I just can't write with someone watching me.

Now, back to Atlantic City for a moment. It's late September. Tuesday. The boardwalk was pretty crowded. Which means, either people are extending their vacations into fall, or unemployment drives people to the beach. And there were swimmers. That water's got to be cold. Whatever the reason, I noticed quite a bit of New Jersey shining through in passersby. It seems all those reality shows are giving people the courage to be themselves.

That, by the way, was not a compliment.

New Look Redux

2010-09-19T16:27:00.001-04:00

Being married to a graphic designer has its advantages. A simple request like creating a banner for my blog is a snap. But when she saw the new layout, well, let's just say, I'm glad I'm not a paying client. And so is she, so she could really tell me what she thinks. Anyway, with some prodding from my betrothed, we have agreed upon yet another, rather clean looking layout. I think the new banner rocks. Agree?

Oh yeah, I'm supposed to mention The Bookshelf Muse's 1000 follower contest and giveaway. But if I mention it, I fear too many will enter, reducing my chance of winning. So I won't mention it, but there is a link on the sidebar.

New Look; New Plan

2010-09-18T20:51:00.001-04:00

I tried this a while back and ended up with the sterile white blog you may be used to. I'm thinking branding. Something that you look at and say, "Hey! That's Matt!" So what do you think?

As far as writing goes, still no progress on the synopsis or query, but I have a plan. In the next several days, I expect to incorporate my new chapters, then write the synopsis, then query. I have no reason to expect any of it will be as easy as all that, but in order to move on I needed a plan. (I keep typing plan with an e. I do have a four day trip starting tomorrow, which is how I expect to get all this work done.)

Once the query is written, and submitted, I must focus on something new. I've lived with these pirates too long now, to the detriment of other things. I have several stories in various states of being. I will pick one, finish it, and do the above for said story. If I have to shelve Skully, so be it. Whether it is a good story, it has made me a better writer, so perhaps the next thing I write will get published.

Take 'Em Out Igor

2010-09-17T10:44:00.000-04:00

I don't use foul language often, but you don't know how hard it was to not put the word 'fuck' in the title of this post. I had to count to ten first. A little trick I picked up a couple of months ago.

Fact: Howard and Moira take exactly 296 Disney vacations per year.

Fact: Their daughter, Sammy, misses approximately 1745 days of school per year for said vacations, because she still believes it's real.

Fact: They are currently on their way to Spain to hop a Disney Cruise ship for a two week sail across the Atlantic.

Fact: They left their dog, Alfalfa, with a friend, who also has a dog.

This morning I got a voice mail from Howard. The two dogs did not get along. Alfalfa is now home. By himself. For two weeks. So if I wouldn't mind, could I feed him and let him out and such? If not, it's no big deal.

Are you frakking kidding me?

If not, it's no big deal?

What kind of people treat their dog like this? And the sad part is, Alfalfa is the best part of the whole family.

So I go over immediately to see how he is. I'm not a dog person, but come on! The house, as you might expect, is filthy. A sheen of grease covers the floor. There are dirty clothes hanging out of the washing machine. Used dishes on the counter and in the sink. Dog food (at least there was some) scattered everywhere. And, to top it all off, all of their outdoor furniture is now inside and hurricane shutters cover the windows. Howard, in his paranoia, has taken these precautions in case a storm pops up while he's gone. But only for the back of the house. I, along with now caring for the dog, am expected to secure the rest of his house.

So I bring the dog over to my backyard for some R&R and, although practically blind, he immediately manages to find some raccoon poop, or some kind of poop. I'm no expert. Animals don't go in my yard. They know better. At least they did. Now they're conspiring against me because Alfalfa went straight for it and took a bath in it.

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?@?#!

I would have sent him home like that, but, as the default caregiver, I don't want to deal with still more crap. So I hosed the dog off and washed his collar.

I sincerely hope no storm comes ashore while they are gone. First, because I don't want to deal with it. Second because Howard already has, and it would please me to think all his work was for nothing.

Now, I can't blame Howard for his friend being an arse, but the idea I should now be responsible for Alfalfa pisses me off. There is a storm out there. Hurricane Igor is so massive, I envision it encompassing the entire Atlantic Ocean just as the S.S. Mickey Mouse sets sail.

This is my dream. I know it is cruel, but that's what happens when I'm driven to swear.

Oh, and when they get back, Sammy gets held back a year in school.

That Damn Synopsis - Part Deux

2010-09-15T22:57:00.001-04:00

So I sit down to write the damn thing. And it seems like a decent start, only what I'm writing is a bit different from my actual manuscript. So I fight the urge, but keeping typing the wrong stuff. Then I think to myself, I kinda like this better.

Is there a way to make it work?

No dumbass. Your story doesn't open like that. Why are you synopsizing what you didn't write?

Well, what if it did?

Then you'd have a better story to sell. But you don't. Because you didn't.

Well maybe I will?

But you're supposed to be synopsiszing. And querying. Because you found an agent you know is going to want a synopsis. Don't waste your time.

Isn't it a waste of time to submit a query when my beginning isn't as strong as it could be?

I suppose. I mean, you're only talking one chapter, right?

Probably. Maybe two.

And then you can hitch it up to the rest, so it seems all natural-like?

Yeeaahhh...unless...even now I'm changing it some more.

Great! Here comes another frakking re-write.

One Year In

2010-09-12T21:11:00.000-04:00

One year ago today this blog launched with as much fanfare as would greet a fry cook tossing out the grease from last night's fish sticks.

Stumbling block overcome, I think its been a pretty fun year along the evolutionary trail through blogtown. I suppose I expected to have a lot more writing-related posts, but the truth is, I don't have a clue what I'm doing. I'm sure not going to pretend to be an expert. But who knew my wacky neighbors would offer such fodder? Well, I did. And Mrs. Sarcasm did. And really, we haven't even scratched the surface on neighbors' past. (Should that be possessive? I'm thinking ghosts of Christmas past. Probably not.)

I hope I have enlightened you all a bit about who I am, without ever actually revealing who I am, what I do for a living, and what I do for fun. It's pretty much all here, restricted only by laze and lack of creativity.

So thanks to everyone who has stopped by, become a follower, commented, or just read anonymously.

This next year should be a big one. We are, after all, expecting from Korea, and Lord knows that will be ripe with the unexpected. Also, I plan to get an agent soon, and then get published. Now, if only I could get the agents and publishers to adhere to that plan.

The Pillars Of The Earth Have Fallen

2010-09-11T11:02:00.000-04:00

Today was D-Day. No disrespect to 9/11, but as an airline pilot, I constantly live with its reminders. So forgive me for not partaking in the solemnity of remembrance. I'll be flying later today. Don't think it won't be on my mind.

But D-Day for me, is due day; as in, due back to the library day; as in, The Pillars of the Earth, the 973 page monstrosity by Ken Follett, foisted upon me as the greatest book ever written, was due back today after only two weeks to consume its enormity. I did not.

I tried. It's not that it is a bad book. It was a good enough story, and had I had more time, I would continue right through the end, and then read the sequel that spurred this burden in the first place. But, the greatest book ever written? Not so much. Of course, I'm just one reader. But one with buying power, which I obviously didn't wield at the library, which likely led to my substandard opinion.

Again, the story is good, but far from a page-turner. More like a when-is-this-chapter-going-to-end-so-I-can-put-down-this-frakking-book-er.

That makes it sound worse, I think, than it actually is. So be it. I don't like leaving a book unfinished. One I day I will come back to it. Perhaps when I'm a wealthy author with gobs of cash to fill floor to celing bookshelfs. Or, more likely, my iPad.

I wonder if I can get credit for the 283 pages I did read?

That Damn Synopsis

2010-09-07T13:12:00.000-04:00

Natalie Murphy over at The Sound of Rain wrote a deservedly angry gripe on the evils of the query letter. Now, I've been putting off my own query writing for a while now, and by gum, it's time to man up. But then I started thinking about how a query is an entire book condensed to one page, which ought to be impossible, and compared it to a synopsis, which is an entire book condensed to several, or more, pages.

Well, that ought to be easier.

Except, having already attempted it a few times, I know it is not easier. However, I thought, if I can write a successful synopsis, I should, logically, then further be able to synopsize the synopsis and turn it into a query. And then, a friend asked me to look over his synopsis, which still needed some work, so I let the Google machine guide me to a few synopsis writing sites.

Of course, there is Absolute Write, which is invaluable, but I also came across a few others.

This first one is a bit bare bones and lists basically what goes into a synopsis and not much more.

This next one gets to the heart of the synopsis a bit more, describing not just what to write, but how.

At any rate, that's the first few results from the Google. I imagine there are better ones, but I'm not of a mind to research them for the sake of this post.

So, a-synopsizing I will go. If you have some advice, toss it my way. I've got a butterfly net handy.