Absent

Hi everyone. I've lost my Internet for the last week. Still trying to get it sorted out. I will be posting something soon.

This morning I finished my final draft of my book 'The Pattern Thief'. It's about 106,000 words long. It went up from my previous 104,000, but it's better than all my drafts combined. I've sent it out to about 60 agents so far. One bit, but then said it wasn't for her after receiving more materials. I've gotten some positive feedback, but no takers.

I've had it out for about four months now for publishing. I know it takes time and perseverance.

A question for any who read the blog. Have any of you heard of Tate Publishing. They're supposed to be a split between an outright vanity press and a legitimate publisher. It takes an 'investment', but they are supposed to only accept 5% of the submissions they receive. I could only find comments about them in the 2005 - 2006 time frame. If you know something, let me know. They want to publish 'The Pattern Thief', but I'm uncertain as to whether they're plainly a vanity press just trying to make as much as they can. Their website says they invest over $26,000 in your book.

I'll be back soon if I can get the stupid Internet going again.

The Decision

Several days ago I made a decision. I'm not sure if it is a good one, but whenever I try to consider it, my mind wanders away. He is a sneaky fellow. You know the phrase, he has a mind of his own. Well, my mind is his own person and seldom seeks my advice. I on the other hand, consult him at every turn. Most of the time I think he is French, with all the rude gestures and all.

When I was a senior in high school in the sophisticated city of art in southwestern Wyoming (I must tell you that I take my life in my hands by mentioning the word art and Wyoming in the same sentence.) our counselor forced, I mean, asked us to take an aptitude test. We answered a few hundred questions and the answers were to point us towards a career designed to fit our interests.

Mr. Hammond, our school counselor, was drunk on the day he worked my results, or so I surmised because the tests revealed I should pursue a career in literature or art. Mr. Hammond drank one hundred and five cups of coffee each day. I have no doubt he was lacing a few of them with Southern Turkey bourbon.

As all high school students do, I simply ignored such erroneous information and became an accountant. My wife Hun (now all of you realize this is not her real name, but I've neglected to ask Hun for her permission to use her in my blog. Being the thoughtful husband I am, I wanted her to avoid the nasty legal battle, so I've developed an appropriate reference to her presence in my stories) determined early in our marriage that she must somehow bring sophistication and class to the hill billy she married. I've asked her to stop such reckless behavior as I enjoy her company.

She forced, I mean, introduced my to such things as ballet, opera, symphonies, and the theatre. You notice I used the 're' ending to show my burgeoning sophistication. I was coerced, I mean, learned to love the artistic facet of our lives. She showed me that my high school aptitude test wasn't the result of a drunken, underpaid, coffee guzzling, schizophrenic, but the a revelation of my true self.

Now that I have been pointed--by a double barrel shotgun--I mean with gentle persuasion toward my true vocation, I have decided to become an author. I undertook the task with the enthusiasm of an elementary janitor, I mean the passion of a misunderstood muse. The first book flew by with the speed of a BMW on the autobahn. I was elated when I gazed at all 396 pages.

The advise to every first time author is to do the best you can, and then let it sit for a few weeks. After this period, it is time to delve into your book and edit it. I followed this advice and was surprised to see that my precious work of art had been sabotaged by a sadistic computer gremlin that had taken my beautiful words and turned them into the ravings of a homicidal lunatic.

Not to be discouraged, I stabbed at each intrusion of senility and brought my book out of the dreary pile of mediocrity into the light of sublime literature. Upon further advice, I researched the publishing industry to begin the submission process. I discovered the infamous query letter and its trappings. (I know that little computer gremlin is responsible for the devilry that is the query letter.) I learned of the synopsis. (Condensing four hundred pages into five hundred words.) (I used to have a full head of hair.) And finally, the searching out of and submission to the gatekeeper, the evil and demonic Agent.

I submitted and submitted only to find out that all of the agents have asked me if my writing is the work of a deranged homicidal lunatic.

Now many of you may think the topic of my blog to day is the decision to become an author, but you'd be wrong. I have nearly completed my sixth major edit of my book and have decided that it is my last. However, this is not the decision I am referencing. My decision or more precisely conclusion is that no matter how many times I edit, the writing is always going to appear as the musings of a raving, homicidal lunatic, and that's just fine with me.

High Triglyceride

Those of you who follow this blog (Five already, Yippee!) know, there was an incident a few days ago that found me lying prone on my front room floor. Of course, Hun decided that I must visit the Dr. This visit ended as all visits do--me with twenty less dollars in my pocket and nothing new revealed. He, the doctor that is, didn't want to leave any stone unturned--owing to the fact that I might sue him--ordered blood work.

If you are feint of heart, skip this paragraph. We are entering the horror section of the post. I went to the lab, they poked my with a needle, and drew blood. Alright, you may go back to reading. That was all, but some times the feint of heart will topple to the floor just by the mere mention of blood.

On Friday, a nurse from my doctor's office called to tell me that I have High Triglyceride. Alarmed and not wanting to believe my Triglyceride capable of 'using', I did what any concerned adult would do...I developed a covert spy operation.

One night, desiring to build my case and confront the deviant little derelict, I snuck out of the house following my Triglyceride to catch him 'in the act'. In order to alleviate the problem, you must have hard, fast facts and then you must intervene.

My Triglyceride took me on a twisting, backtracking, and circuitous route into the seedier parts of town. He parked his car in the middle of the block, got out and looked carefully in every direction before walking to the mouth of an alley. I had stopped a block away to remain inconspicuous.

Moving stealthily through the night--by the way, for a man who has had a heart attack, been forced to wrestled numerous times with his wife, and has a delinquent Triglyceride to follow, I moved impressively--I stopped at the mouth of the alley. Deep in the shadows, my Triglyceride sidled up to a shady character of questionable repute.

I held my breath as the questionable character threw open his long trench coat. I stifled a gasp, preparing myself for the worse. Nothing I've seen in my life could have prepared me for the depravity I saw. I turned out of the alley, retching as quietly as possible, and turned back to witness the Triglyceride in action.

I pick up the conversation.

"Show me what you've got today," said my Triglyceride.

"You're going to like what I've got, Grunt," the character said. Why he called my Triglyceride Grunt, I never found out.

The character laid out a chili cheese fries. My Triglyceride waved a dismissive hand and said, "No, no. I need something stronger."

"No problem, Grunt," the character said as he plopped a well marbled 22 ounce rib-eye steak down on a rough board laid across boxes. A slight shudder passed through my Triglyceride.

"Good, but I'm looking for something even stronger."

The character frowned for a second pausing to think, then smiled as he drew out a triple scoop chocolate fudge, caramel, butterscotch, whip cream with a cherry on top ice cream sundae.

My Triglyceride audibly moaned--or was that me--and said, "Very close, but I need a real buzz this time."

The character said, "I've been saving this one for such an occasion." He dramatically opened a large flap. He placed the ultimate in 'experimentation' on the board. A triple beef baconator with cheddar jack cheese and mayonnaise.

I sprang from the front of the alley and said, "Ah-ha, caught you red handed, I did."

My Triglyceride shrank back in embarrassment and shame, the character scrambled trying to conceal the evidence, while I executed the classic intervention.

"No, it's not what you think," my Triglyceride fumbled.

"What is it then if it's not what I think?" I asked sternly.

The character, having realized I wasn't the cops said, "Here, sit down. Have a triple beef baconator with cheddar jack cheese and mayonnaise and we'll work this out."

After the baconator, a good helping of chili cheese fries, and the triple scoop sundae to wash it down, I forgot why I had trailed my poor Triglyceride in the first place.

Where Is My Youth

A couple of days ago my wife had a scare. We've been reduced to returning to our humble beginnings because of the 'Great Recession'. Four months ago we moved into an apartment complex. While this fact is scary, it's not the source of my wife's fears.

Our youngest daughter is in first grade and has been sick for the last few days. She's bored out of her mind and has been testing her boundaries. Unwittingly, I opened the door to our apartment intending to find and scold her. To my surprise, the neighbors were hauling boxes and furniture to a moving van.

I knew their moving day was coming, but I forgot the exact day. If I'd remembered, I would have sent Hun to find our daughter while I hid in our bedroom closet. Weeks ago, in a fit of delirium, I promised my neighbor I would help him when the day arrived. Before I could slam the front door and escape, he froze me with the remember-you-promised-me stare. I placed a phony smile on my face and asked if I could help. Being the heinous, unforgiving neighbor he is, he pleasantly replied, "Sure, we're just getting ready to move the heavy stuff."

For those who don't know me, I am nearly 6'2" tall and weigh 275 lbs. Sure I'm a little stout, but in general I'm just a big man. The kind of man that people expect can lift the 'heavy stuff'. Soon climbing, lifting, and copious sweating ensued as I worked with my neighbor. I tried to pace myself, but a demon interfered, frightening my skittish youth, who went yelping with his tail between his legs to hide in some corner.

After a period of lost memory, (contraty to biased reports, I did not feint) I found myself lying on the front room floor of our apartment with a strange pressure in my chest, shortness of breath, and mild radiating pain down my arm. I know what your thinking and this gave me pause for concern, as well. However, when I told Hun that this was no time for wrestling, she removed her knee from my sternum and freed my twisted arm before saying, "Pinned you again, Buster."

Free of her hi-jinks, I went searching for my youth. The first place to look is behind 1981. It's his favorite hiding spot. I've kept 1981 around because it was the best year of my life. I was seventeen and at the height of my masculinity, charms, and looks. Combining all three, I stood about 2' tall. Everything has eroded since then.

I spent the day trying to find my youth without any luck. I think he's really mad that I would volunteer to lift heavy objects. I wouldn't worry about it so much, but my wife, Hun, kept looking at me with a funny expression saying, "You look awful, I'm making a Dr.'s appointment."

The next morning she asked me how I felt. I said, "I feel better, but there's still pressure in my chest."

"Oh, sorry," Hun says removing her knee from my sternum. "I guess I shouldn't be wrestling you right now because you look awful."

We went to the Dr. and I was pronounced fit as fiddle, which is really annoying because I've never seen a fiddle lift a two thousand pound piano. I wasn't that surprised because no Dr. I've ever visited has been able to cure any of my ailments, but I did think it was strange that he made this parting comment.

"Brad, take better care of yourself, you look awful."

Well of course I look awful, I can't find my youth.

The Wordsmith

I've been unemployed now for 405 days. What a vacation, right? It's been a costly one, but in order to survive you've got to be on the lookout for a silver lining. Mine has been the pursuit of a dream. You can see from my tongue-in-cheek blog title and description, my outlook is very serious.

Years ago, when I endeavoured to decide my path in life, I did it with as much finesse as a drunken sailor throwing darts at a board. The dart landed, and that is what I have made of my life. As you can imagine, career satisfaction has been optimal. This 405 day vacation has given me the opportunity to pursue a much more satisfying career, that of the Wordsmith.

Merriam-Webster defines the Wordsmith as someone who works with words; especially: a skillful writer.

Allow me to pause for a moment for an aside to this post. I have been spending considerable time with Merriam and Webster in pursuit of this dream. (I find Merriam tedious and Webster riveting) A slightly annoying side affect of obtaining the free use of their considerable work is the ever continuous pop-up ads. I found one the other day scandalous and completely offensive.

Imagine if you will two unclothed individuals with their arms and legs covering forbidden body areas while striking suggestive poses. All for the sake of advertising perfume. I am considering a strongly worded letter to our learned word connoisseurs. You may surmise that I find the content of this ad the object of my offense, but you'd be wrong. What I find offensive is the blatant attack upon our intelligence.

Who are the avid users of Merriam-Webster. Is it the alluring young lady desiring to attract said scantily clothed young man with the perfume? Is it the daring young man imagining the mere purchase of yon liquid for the alluring lady will result in spending time unclothed. I doubt it. The Wordsmith is the one spending time with our dear Merriam and Webster.

His or her passion is consumed in the elusive and proper use of the magnificent word. The appearance of the ad, if it even registers on their psyche, will produce the same offensive result as I felt. Please gentlemen, clean up the ads.

Back to the Wordsmith. I find the English language, the breadth and scope of our words fascinating. Some are outright hilarious. Take for instance the topic of our discussion today. Why in the world would someone decide to call a skillful writer a Wordsmith. Is it the ending, the word 'smith'? A smith is a maker, or in America, the most common last name and my next door neighbor. I wonder how many of them are makers. My neighbor certainly isn't, unless you consider his large Labrador, Fido. He's certainly a maker. Usually on my front lawn.

Most of us think of the Blacksmith. (Another amazingly hilarious word) He or she is a worker of metals. We think of fire, anvils, and a large hammer. When I started writing, I sat down in my chair with my laptop, my potbelly stove, a piece of half inch metal stock, and a very large hammer. (In my case a sledge hammer)

Hun, my wife, asked what in the world I was doing. I told her I was changing careers and planned on being a Wordsmith. She giggled and said, "Call me when you start working. I can't wait to see this."

Insulted, I started with my first word 'potpourri'. After some time in the potbelly stove and some judicious use of the sledge hammer, I subdued that rascal of a word. It won't be showing its face around here any time soon. I illustrate.

The other day Hun placed a bowl of mixed dry flowers, herbs, and spices on the table. When she noticed me sitting down with a bowl of cereal, she snidely remarked, "Be careful, Buster. I just put down a fresh bowl of po.... Now what do you call that again?"

She looked to me for help, but I've already done my work on the word.

"You know, a bowl of mixed flowers, herbs, and spices. What do you call that again?"

I shrug my indifference, mentally cackling with glee, for I have performed the work of a Wordsmith this day. I am well on my way!!

Why Does My Mind Wake Up When My Body Needs Sleep?

It is tomorrow... Well, actually it's today, but when I started it was yesterday. Figure that one out.


I lay in bed, my body is exhausted with my head pounding. Soon my mind rolls over, sits up on the edge of the bed, stretches, scratches his armpit, smacks his mouth a couple of times, and gets up.


I say, "Hey where do you think you're going?"


He sneers at me and walks out without a word. I sneer back, roll over in bed, and close my eyes. Unfortunately, my body is stupid and can't figure out how to go to bed on its own. So much for sleeping tonight.


I've always wanted to write a book. In January, I finally sat down and did it. The biggest hurtle has been the workings of my mind.  It's all over the place, my mind that is.  I tell it to behave and the next thing you know it's wandering off to another room forgetting to take me with it.  I get up from my chair and walk to the kitchen or garage and just stand there.


My body is confused. "Why am I just standing here?"


I picture my mind peaking around the corner giggling over the predicament my body is in.  Sometimes my mind is merciful and rejoins me before my body gives up.  More often than not, my mind ends up laughing hysterically on the floor while my body drools stupidly.  Eventually my body gives up and wanders back to the chair.


This kind of meandering mind makes it difficult to bring a story line together. For instance, I have an exciting action scene developing and then I glance at my computer screen....

Drake stood in the path, eyes widened in disbelief, heart racing with an unexplained terror. A figure waited ahead, its gray cloak blending with the twilight creating the illusion of a disembodied head. It was tall and broad-shouldered, the hood hiding its face in deep shadows. The unmistakable protrusion of a snout escaped the shroud shading the eyes. Drake's hand drifted to the pommel of his sword.... Hey, did I see salsa in the refrigerator earlier?  I should get some salsa!  I am in the mood for salsa!!

"Hun, do we have any chips?

"I'm sure the reader is confused by my insolent mind. Actions scenes are only the beginning. Can you imagine the devastation as a result of my attempt to write a descriptive narrative? A new Cold war, nuclear holocaust, an alien invasion!


In spite of my limitation, my desire to write is very powerful, bordering obsession. My challenge is to keep my mind engaged long enough to pull it all together. I found myself last December pondering the matter only to find my body standing at the bottom of the stairs with its mouth hanging open.


"Uh," it says in its mind numbing sophistication. "What we doing down here?"


I race around the room trying to locate my mind so I can answer my body.


"Hun, have you seen my mind lately. I left it by the chair and now I can't find it."


"Have you tried looking inside the thing on your shoulders?" she says in her usual insolent manner.


"Ha, Ha. Very funny. Come on I need it," I say with witty sarcasm.


I check my cranium while she's not looking and sure enough, their sits the sadistic fellow with a smirk on his face. I verbally lambaste him. He responds by sliding his hands behind his head and striking a most offensive pose. I raise my fist in a threatening manner. He smirks again.


"Did you find him?" Hun yells from the kitchen.


"Yeah, he was right next to the chair where I left him." I threaten him with everlasting punishment if he even thinks to out me.


I've started this blog to give me a forum for daily writing and a way to connect with a wider community. I hope to create an enjoying environment, a little humor, and a way to brighten other's day. Please enjoy.