[Low Odysseys]

This just in for the 2 people that might read my blog before reading my wife’s, don’t follow either of us on Twitter, and aren’t our friends on Facebook: she is pregnant and we are expecting our second child in January.

Oh, and the Novel is almost finished-finished, like 2nd draft I’m excited to start showing it finished, which is also kind of cool.

In other news, Sam had his 3rd birthday on Tuesday and celebrated it for damn near a week. The biggest day of the festivities was on Saturday, wherein a number of his friends of varying sizes and ages came and played with him for an afternoon of pizza, wings, soda and beers, and a delicious ice-cream cake shaped like a giant Oreo cookie that his mom made for him…

Sam likes Star Wars. When he was an infant, I remember a Thursday night wherein Annika was going off to her knitting group, leaving me and the baby at home. Sam lay on a blanket in front of the TV and fell asleep while I had the Clone Wars cartoon on- it was the OG Genndy Tarakovsky one, I enjoyed it, he fell asleep smiling.

As the years have passed, Sam has continued to enjoy the Tarakovsky “bridge” stories, the actual “Clone Wars” that Lucas neglected to show much of during the Prequel Trilogy. I say he “enjoys” but only a parent can understand what that actually means, so for those of you who don’t have or haven’t had a small person, it means Obsesses. The kid wants to watch their favorite story once a day- at least- they start noticing things that are related to it, toys or books or art- things that didn’t interest them before begin to, because they resemble the story… you get where I’m at.

Sam likes Lego Star Wars: The Video Game (a lot). When he was little, he’d ask us to play it for him. Now he plays it on the PS2, badly. We need to get it for the Wii for him, because he totally understands the Wii’s control system and doesn’t like the PS2’s in comparison.

Anyways, about 2 months or so ago Sam and I were at Target looking for something, and we wandered down the Lego isle- Sam likes Legos, having mostly outgrown his Duplos and whatnot- and he saw a Star Wars Lego set for Annakin’s space-ship (the one he flies off in towards the end of Episode 3, not the dog-fight one from the opening)- and most importantly, it came with a lego mini-fig of R2-D2.

Sam also likes R2-D2, a Lot. Once, after finishing the Clone Wars discs for the umpteenth time, Annika slapped in The Revenge of the Sith- figuring that since the movie started right where the Clone Wars episodes ended (with Griveous wheezing and having captured Palpatine, Annakin and Obi-Wan flying to rescue him through the space battle over Coruscant), that he wouldn’t really mind the transition from animation to live-action (mostly). And she was right.

What we didn’t count on was Sam falling in love with R2-D2. Majorly. To the point of reaching out and trying to catch the plucky little droid when he falls down the length of the hanger during an action set-piece.

When Sam saw the R2-D2 Lego mini-fig (he already had appropriated a trio of SW themed mini-figs the McQs had given me for Xmas some years ago), he grabbed the box and dragged it to me. He asked for it, I told him maybe sometime soon- a $20 dollar set is cheap, but we is po.

Well, for his Birthday we got him the set- and a pair of lightsabres, and a sticker book, and his mother made him an AWESOME Jedi robe as well as an R2-D2 knit hat.

His R2 love seems to have cooled a little since it’s halcyon days, but he is still a Star Wars kid. The lightsabres excited him to no end. But the real joy I got was the look of total glee and recognition on his face when he unwrapped the Lego Star Wars set with Annakin’s star-fighter and the R2-D2 minifig.

At the end of the day, with everyone full of food and good cheer and happy, Sam was quietly playing over by my computer while Annika and I cleaned up. Ignoring the starfighter, the lightsabres, his blaster pistol (it makes noise, and is a much beloved gift from one of his guests) Sam had taken his R2-D2 mini-fig as and his 3/4 inch R2 (the standard Hasbro action figure, an early gift from his gramma) and was playing with the two of them.

Sam got a lot of love and a lot of great toys and presents at his Birthday Party and on his actual birthday- a lot of non-SW stuff as well. But for me the stand-out moment was the two R2’s of varying scale and style, sliding back and forth next to each other, under the watchful eye of the Happy Birthday banner (complete with Darth Vadar, Yoda, and some Storm Troopers).

C is for C’Thulu. Well, actually C’Thulu has no letters in any human language that spell it, but it is as close as we can approximate without our tongues turning to salt.
C is for Corpse filled Cenotes and Curiously Calm Covens.
C is for Chaos and its various Cults.
C is for Cunning Crypto-zoologists and Conniving Cabals.
For Joseph Curwen, and Captain Clegg.
It is for Cappadocia and Constantine. And Carthage.

Count di Cagliostro was born Giuseppe Balsamo, but he was known in his life as the Count Cagliostro (which is why his entry is here instead of in the previous). A Mystic, alchemist, occultist, failed seminarian, vagabond, thief, murderer, profiteer, Freemason, international instigator, agent provocateur, Charlatan and Convict.

Cagliostro’s disputed but likely involvement in the so-called “Affair of the Necklace” undoubtedly led to the French Revolution. It is interesting that of the Musketeers who claimed loyalty to Anne of Austria, only Aramis ever suspected Cagliostro’s shadow intermingling with that of Richelieu. The latter, of course, held title of Cardinal.

The Spanish Inquisition attempted to carry out a death sentence on Cagliostro, but the Pope intervened… why?

When Cagliostro died in 1795, the reports were not believed throughout Europe and only after a report commissioned by Napoleon Bonaparte did the Royal Families accept his demise as fact.

Same claim that Cagliostro re-appeared on the European royal-political map under a different name about a hundred years later. Whether those reports are true or not, there are some disturbing comparisons between Cagliostro’s affect on Western Europe in the late 1700s, and how another “holy” man affected Eastern Europe in the early 1900s… See R for this entry.

All storms pass with time. Sometimes you need a stiff drink, or a hot bath, or a long walk or a slice of pizza to shake off a mood. Sometimes you just need to wait until the wind shifts. Sometimes your son hugs you and kisses you on the cheek and you just start smiling again.

Regardless, can I command a round of applause for Nova? One of the most talented people I’ve known in my adventures, and also one of the most kind and generous. And all that good humor and hard work has paid off, because she is in a very good place right now and I am just thrilled grinning for her.

Maybe it was coincidence, or maybe having a dear friend experience a wonderful surge of positive momentum kickstarted me out of my funk, but this weekend just rocked. Last weekend or so, last couple weeks, I’ve been treading water & going through the motions.

Saturday Morning I got up pre-dawn and slammed through some edits and re-writes that I’ve been scared to tackle (see below) and then the Family just had a damn fine weekend. We stayed busy, we stayed laughing, we all smiled a lot.

We hiked up the big ridge at Vasquez, followed a dry creek bed for a quarter mile through the back country, and Annika surprised (and vice versa) a big-ass snake nearly five feet long. We watched Charro’s spin and leap through twirling lariats at the Autrey. We ate and drank and slept and played and did it all again.

Monday always rears its head, and this one has a lot of extra work dangling from it- we have a busy week ahead of us. But I’m not concerned. I think I got a big enough charge from this weekend to burn of the fog of work.

Anyway, I have a goddamn kickass novel to edit, so y’all will just have to excuse me.

And some days the Novel eats you.

Writing the First Novel, DOGS, was easy. It was exhausting, but it was easy. Editing it has been a slow uphill slog. I blamed this, for the better part of a year, on two things. The first was that I am busy writing a Second and Better kind of Novel, for lack of a better title we’ll call it SINNER.

The second reason is that when I wrote DOGS I pounded out its ridiculous mass of words in just over 2 months. So it is a sloppy, messy manuscript with armfuls of tense problems, punctuation fuckups, and even some horrible pieces of writing- I was purging the story from myself, not crafting something to be proud of.

Now, a year and some change later, my dear friend CP insists that DOGS actually is something to be proud of; he feels it is an above-average mass market paperback sci-fi shooter… and that makes me happy, that I have a fan. And not just in a “aw, he’s yer buddy, of course he gives good feedback” kinda way, but in that he is actually a Fan of the Story and the Writing, not just of Me… you know what I mean?

Anyways, someday I hope to finish editing DOGS and throw together a synopsis and a logline and prepare to paper the bathroom with rejection slips or something.

Then there is SINNER. I finished the first draft of SINNER on February 6th of 2009. Not that long ago! Knowing full well that the SINNER’s story is barely even begun, I took a brief writing vacation (as in I didn’t write) and then dove into SINNER 2- the tales of adventure just kept bubbling along, why not fill some pages with them? The fact of the matter is, I could conceivably write about the world of SINNER and it’s inhabitants for the rest of my life. What is more, I think it’s actually a good book. I feel like I’ve tapped into something special with SINNER and it feels like a good something, something a little different- eh, maybe not, I don’t really know what is out there to compare it too- but something with a unique voice, definitely.

Regardless, this book too, needs to be edited. And therein lays the rub, the pain, and maybe even the source of this semi-crippling malaise that has been looming over me for the past I don’t know how long…

I hate editing. I just have the hardest damn time doing it! I resent all those writers who complain about the Writing but seem to adore the Editing, the “I love to have written,” people. WTF, y’all? It drives me nuts. I’m staring at the story that has been writ large, and I’m almost incapable of pulling myself OUT of the story to actually edit it!

It is very hard to get into the right mind space to edit a manuscript on a semi-busy loading dock. It is even harder in a hectic home. These are the two places I have in my life. I feel trapped by my own productivity or the lack thereof in this particular case. I resent my Words: they keep coming; the SINNERverse keeps expanding in my head. SINNER 2 is maybe a quarter done- if SINNER 2 will be approximately the same word count as SINNER 1. And the “Notes” file I have for the overarching series isn’t exactly small either.

Am I alienating you, dear fellow writers, by bitching about my productivity? If so, I am really sorry. But the fact of the matter is, I appear to be the literary equivalent of an untrained militia-man: I’m all Spray and Pray. I feel like I just empty the full clip on fully-automatic and hope a few rounds strike home, rather than someone who carefully crafts each sentence and paragraph; the literary equivalent of a veteran sharpshooter.

So maybe I’m just a chronic underachiever. If I never edit these manuscripts, I’ll never have to write synopses and send out query letters and deal with rejection or agent-hunting or… that is just fucking great, I can hide behind my hatred/fear of editing and fail by lack of trying.

Whatever it is, it’s fucking frustrating.

Somedays the bear eats you.

I’ve never eaten bear, but I’ve always remembered the part in Prince Caspian where those kids wrap bear meat around an apple and roast it. That sounds pretty good, really.

I haven’t had a lot to say lately, here or on any of the “social networking” websites I sometimes natter on at. Why is that?

It isn’t “block”, because I have been getting writing done. It’s just sort of a… creative inertia? The ideas are there, they still come pouring out when I sit down and apply my fingers to the keyboard- the words are there too, thankfully…

I’m just going through some sort of spring-fevered “meh” period. I still love you all, I just haven’t had anything that I felt terribly compelled to share.

What a week it’s been. I just haven’t been able to get my speed up this week, with sleep, writing, or much of anything. I have no idea how I’ve been as a dad, partner, husband, or guy who cleans the dishes- let alone at work. It’s just been… a great big heaping bowl of “meh”. With low energy.

Today was supposed to be the New Start, the recharge day, and I kinda want to quit. After a Very Good night’s sleep (with Sam staying in his own bed until 6, nursing for five minutes and then coming off to find me) followed by a dash of writing this AM, so I was ready for a New Week.

Bettie had a thing to go to late morning, so after making her and Sam breakfast, I took Sam for a walk to our bank to get some cash- for various reasons, neither of us have a working ATM Card (and no, we aren’t the “Hipster Grifter”, for one thing we hate everybody too much to pretend to like them and get their $$$)- regardless…

It was a sweaty walk and Sam didn’t feel like doing it on his feet, but rather on Dad’s back. So Dad, being me, carries him- and wishes he’d brought the stroller. Some miles and gallons of sweat later we’re back at home, but my back has gone out- or is hovering on the verge of going out- Sam is exhausted, redfaced and sweaty and is asking to use the bathroom- and Bettie is out driving around, looking for us.

I know I am King Luddite and all, but fine, fine. I did not wish for a magical cell phone to harness my spouse in. I just hoped she’d find us and get to her Thing on time (I think she did, I hope she did).

Find us she does, just as I’m realizing that I’m developing blisters, and off she goes. Sam uses the john and the day continues on- everyone is where they should be.

Except for Sam, who very sweetly asks to play his video game a bit earlier than we usually let him… but, you know what? It’s Saturday. And I am having trouble bending over at the waist, so rather than try and entice him to play with me, I set him up with the wii controllers, Lego Batman, and his bowl of popcorn.

So he’s happily chilling up there, I lay down on my back and borrow my wife’s laptop to get some writing done.

I also do a few chores around the house that don’t involve bending at the waist- so all is good, AND I feel semi-accomplished.

Other than the back pain, all is well.

Then, while carrying my darling son a glass of water, I stub my toe. I stub my toes a lot. But this time I manage to (Nova, don’t read this part) shave a chunk of skin off my little toe (Nova, you can read again)

How, you may ask, did I manage to do this? On the edge of the goddamn laundry cart, which lives in our living room waiting for a time when we put clothes away. It hates me, and I being a gentleman return the favor.

Anyhow, there is some bellowing, some one-legged hopping, some Tim Roth impersonating (”Llaary? It hurts real bad Larry,”), and finally I manage to FIND the goddamn medical kit (hidden under a pile of swimming suits, Bettie’s sexy dress, and some diapers that we have no current use for)

Clean off and bandage the hideous wound…

As I finish, I say calmly and out loud: “Goddamnit Sam, this hurts a lot, and your dad could use a little sympathy…”

And what happens? I hear the Danny Elfman theme pause as Sam surely puts down the controller…. and then I hear him stuff a mouthful of popcorn in. He crunches down, the game un-pauses…

Yeah. I think I’d like a beer, please.

Ah well. At least I managed to get about a page written.

For those of you who aren’t aware, I’m branching out and returning to the world of performing for a one-shot event. Granted, I’ll be playing myself (or at least a version thereof) but then, that is what I’ve always kind of done…

What AM I blathering on about? I’ve been chosen by the obviously pretty out-there BeTheBoy and Slackmistress to be the guest co-host for this week’s episode of their web talk series, BeTheMarriage.

Anyhow, the why and how is a long and complicated story involving less larceny and threats than you’d expect from me- but the long point is thusly: I’m going to be “on” for approximately an hour + on Saturday the 11th from like 8pm (PST) till we go dark.

And I honestly don’t remember the last time I performed. You’d think, living in LA, that some friend or enemy would have cajoled me into popping up in their short film or take a part in a reading- but no, no, nothing of that sort.

On the one hand: WTF, friends and enemies, have you heard my voice? Haven’t you-

Ahem. Excuse me. Deep breathing.

Look, the utter lack of taste and/or the absolute Envy and Fear that I invoke in my so-called “friends” and “enemies” is besides the point here.

The point is: for a guy who used to perform constantly, it’s sort of a weird realization that it’s something I haven’t done for over ten years. Ten years? That is like, a long time.

A long time.

Huh. Jesus. I’d better, uh, I’d better- wow, is that sweat on my palms? I’d better call Nina and see if there is a script or something I- whoops! I just, heh, I just knocked that over, whatever it … I gotta, I gotta go and… I dunno, I gotta prepare or something… I mean, I got, I got… people watch this thing? Jesus…

B is for…

Babalon and Black Cat Bone. For Bagh Nakh and Bloodworm. For Bohemian Grove. For Bewitching. For Beast.

Balthazar and his kind are seldom seen outside of the darkest corners of the deepest forests. Their pelts range from black to grey and most colors in between, with those colors being shades of brown. Balthazar can speak, after a fashion, though whether the rest of his kin share this gift is unknown at this time. The Beast of Gévaudan has been denied by Balthazar as being a relation. Balthazar’s legs bend the wrong way, and though people do often mistake it for wolves; it is not: wolves do no have horns.

B is for Batsto. A river called Batsto runs through the south-central Pine Barrens of New Jersey. A village called Batsto is on the banks of that river. An iron-works made use of the rich bog ore deposits during the Revolutionary War. A peculiar blue-green glass was blown in Batsto by an artisan during the mid 1800s. By the late 1980s Batsto was a ghost town. During the early 1990s Batsto was restored as a historic site. The last known pieces of Batsto glass are in private collections.

Bog Hags are actually sexless, in that they have no genitalia. Most Bog Hags possess long stringy hair and narrow faces, and so they are viewed as feminine- hence the “hag” appellation. The ankle-length funerary shrouds, dress-like in some lights, probably add to this misunderstanding. But make no mistake, Bog Hags are without sex. It is not known how Bog Hags reproduce or are created, only that they want to eat you.

Black Dogs have been chronicled as either symbols of protection or portents of doom since 856 AD in the Annales Franoram. Appearing throughout human history every since, including the infamous attack on a church in Bongay England in1577. In more recent visitations, these abnormally large and muscular beasts that tend to appear on dark and lonely roads late at night have been known to protect or herald young children and pregnant women away from danger. One can only assume their troubled history may reflect the state of the world… any conjecture that Balthazar’s kind are related to or in league with the Black Dogs is pure speculation.

Then there is Belasco. About him, the less said the Better.

“Writing is a mug’s game”

I’m not sure who said it, but someone must have.

One of the great pains of writing- and I mean really writing, actively writing, not just contemplating writing- is other writers. Actually, I imagine they are a pain in the ass for non-active writer’s as well.

Sometimes we need other writers. I know I do. I need my writerly friends for support, for commiseration, and for feedback- without those three things, I’d just be that guy at the bar/party/bus stop who complains about how he’s writing but no one cares and anyhow publishing is just a mug’s game… (hmm).

We all need support sometimes. The knowledge that someone, somewhere, is rooting for us to strive, to push, to overcome and to just spill all those ideas onto the page.

Everyone loves to commiserate. Oh c’mon, everyone loves to talk about how crappy their day was or how hard they worked or how much pain they are in. Despite the common knowledge that we ALL have days where we can’t hit for shit, it’s hard to listen to a friend or peer bitch about their bad experience and not feel like gushing about ours as well- even if it’s been a while since we had it. That is human nature. The better human’s among us, the better friends and peers, manage to choke that urge down and not make something that is about US about THEM. And do we repay the favor? Probably not.

I don’t know about you, but I definitely need feedback. I’ve had friends who wrote that really seemed to be writing solely for themselves. One in particular comes to mind, a very, very talented screenwriter who wrote with Speed and Wit and Panache. And then wouldn’t take notes. He couldn’t take notes- I think he was mentally incapable of it. He’d ask for feedback, and when you gave it he would nitpick and argue each point you made, until finally my Wife (beautiful and wise, remember her?) threw up her hands and said to him: “Fine! Your work is perfect, it should be instantly purchased and fast-tracked for at least 7 figures. Happy now?”

“Yes,” he whined sadly; see, he knew he had this crippling disease. He isn’t a stupid guy, just hardwired a certain way. Well, somewhere out there I think he is still writing screenplays and teleplays- and man, I really hope he’s gotten over that.

I love feedback. Sure, I bridle at some notes- but I try to keep the ego in check and the notebook open. Even bad notes can be helpful sometime- and don’t think that some people don’t hand them out! Even your friends can mislead you. But the thing is, you HAVE to listen. You asked for it, after all. I mean, how many people get unsolicited advice on their manuscript/screenplay/poem? If you showed it to someone, it really isn’t unsolicited. Partially because everyone thinks they are a writer…

Oh NOES! There I goes again.

Everyone Thinks They Are A Writer.

Especially now. Especially in this age of the computer, of the internet, of the blog, of the twitter and the facebook and the whatnot.

Writing has become so much more public, it used to be something done in private. Now every writer (or person who doesn’t write but Thinks They Should/Could/Will) has a blog or a tweet or a livejournal (or all of the above, like me) and they- wait for it- they WRITE ABOUT WRITING. Can anything be more pedantic and navel-gazingly inane than to write about writing?

Yet we love it- I love it- and love to read it. I love to see what another writer’s creative process is, how they percolate or accumulate or dispense ideas and quips and phrases. I love the fact that of my closest friends (and I mean both on-line, long distance, and local) the majority of them are Writers- or at least struggling with it.

Sometimes it’s annoying- I mean look, we’re writers. Writers are historically known for being sodden, bitter, twisted old fruits. And some sober and twisted young vegetables as well. The bitterness seems to be mandatory though. If not bitter, than a certain world-weary malaise. Now, the important question: How much of that is Affected?

I’m actually a pretty good natured, optimistic guy- when you get past the weird Rage Episodes or the raving drunken vitriol spewing sessions… but I know that sometimes I come off as, and in fact am, a mean, bitter, resentful man who takes pleasure only in his own creativity. Well, and my son, he’s pretty damn awesome- except when he doesn’t let me write, like this morning.

Dear Son: daddy gets up extra early to get writing done. I know you have taken the computer over as your personal Home Entertainment System, but daddy needs to borrow it for an hour or so every morning. Okay?

Anyway, I’m trying to be less bitter. Less resentful. Less impatient. In general, as a person, a worker and a father and husband at any rate. As a writer too. I’m supportive! Mostly. Shit, I’m working on it.

What was I… oh yes, EVERYONE thinks they can write. This used to bother me (still does- Damnit, shutup, I’m working on it!). Any jackass with a computer is a “Writer” if they are trying to be creative.

But why should this threaten me? I’ve just talked about how happy I am to have dear friends who write? Why should I care if some bartender/dock worker/pencil pusher thinks he/she/it can/should write?

Shit, I WAS a bartender and a pencil pusher, and I work on a dock. What is my problem?

I know other writers who bridle in the same way against this… but really, we aren’t up in some fucking ivory tower strewn with ivy, driven slowly mad in our garrets by the serpentine writing of our muses… well, ok, some of us are, but really…

Everyone can play. It’s writing. All you need is the drive and the imagination. The words show up. That is the magic of it.

Am I writing for myself? Yes. But I’m also writing because these stories need to go someplace. If someone else is spilling over and feels like they are about to burst- I can’t begrudge them writing.

I’m cured!

Well, that one jackass who asked me once: “So, screenwriting, huh? I could do that. A lot of money in that,” he said nodding his head wisely. “Maybe I should get into that,” he said, stroking his chin. Guys like that? Yeah, Fuck You, chongo.

Okay, not cured. Sigh. Progress, not Perfection.

A is for Arsenic, to be used for preserving wood. It has had other uses, at times.

A is also for Arkham, a township in Northeastern Massachusettes that has not been seen since the 1920s.

A stands for Azazello, as in “Azazello’s cream” from which women learned the sinful art of painting their faces.

A is for Alchemy, and Appalachia. For Avalon. For Abremalin oil and Athame and Absinthe and Arisoph. And for Academic Fencing.

Ascension.

But most memorable, perhaps, is Absalom.
Absalom, was one of King David’s sons.
Absalom slew his own brother for the rape of their half-sister.
Absalom had conquered a nation by the age of 20. It is probably true that he proclaimed Death without power in his lands or over his people..
Absalom did not, as some legends say, become an island adrift off a continent.
Absalom, found vainglorious about his own hair, was hanged by it.
Absalom’s end was less than pleasant and involved the winnowing and rendering of his flesh and genitalia.
Absalom was buried near the sea on the island of Saint-Domingue. Some say this is why sea-salt can cure those cursed by a Bokor.