Funny Bones

We're funny. We wear nice clothes, buy expensive cars and print impressive titles on business cards, but in spite of it all, we're hilarious. Here's an example of what I'm talking about.

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A graphic artist designed a back-to-school promotion for a mall. The campaign, "Don't Dress like a Clown, Shop at Fox Hill Mall" (Note: The name of the mall has been changed to avoid litigation). The designer received official word from a national clown society to cease and desist. The premise of the threatened lawsuit? This usage of the word clown, put clowns in a bad light.

Oh for the love of big red noses, lighten up, you're clowns. Clowns that can't take a joke, it's like a sea captain who can't take the rocking ocean or a rich man who hates money. If you wear floppy pink shoes, a white bald wig with wild neon green hair shooting out the sides, people are going to point and laugh. That's the whole idea.

We're funny, and if we lose our sense of humor, we miss an integral component of our sanity.

Rewriting

I handed the manuscript over to a good friend today (Thank you Lori!). She has graciously agreed to review and edit. I always feel vulnerable when I do this, but each time I do, it improves.

I've heard it said that good writing is rewriting. I want every submission to be as sharp as possible, so I'll rework before I take another shot.

In the first rejection, the literary agent said, "the writing itself is not as well-crafted as I need books to be before I represent them to publishers." She liked the story premiss, encouraged me to keep writing and submitting.

I plan to take her advise.

Back to work

I'm exhausted and enthusiastic. The guys trip to the rock-n-roll hall of fame, football hall of fame and a midwest football game is over.

Back to work.

I will keep trying.

One more day.

I'll have thoughts on the trip in a few days... America is a remarkable place.

Our Soundtrack

I didn't leave the Rock-n-Roll hall of fame with one song repeating over and over in my mind, I left with my head in a tangled knot of emotional string. The stimulation didn't stop. The images, memories, wonder and emotion streamed through, like military jets attacking at Mach 2. Things forgotten were brought to the surface in an endless vision on a topsy-turvy ride.

The museum recreates a complicated soundtrack for an interesting era. A Credence Clearwater Revival song appeared in the cacophony, instantly taking me back to high school shop class where Jerry Emm played the band constantly, over the sounds of banging hammers and arch welders. CCR - There's a bad moon on the rise. An eight-track tape of Fleetwood Mac next to the dress Stevie Nicks wore in the cover shot. You can go your own way. James Taylor's first guitar, his brother painted blue, it changed the sound, James never played it again. I've seen fire and I've seen rain. Smokey Robinson describing early motown. The tears of a clown, when there's no one around. Little Stevie Wonder, Very Superstitious writing on the wall. Diana Ross and the Supremes. Baby, baby, where did our love go...

Lyrics, music and talent expressing our time, our journey, our humanity. Loneliness, beauty, vulnerability, anger, frustration, love, sensuality, confusion, exuberance, laughter, hope, on and on pieces of our lives strewn about this magnificent six story glass pyramid on Lake Erie.

The journey of emotion left me exhausted and reflective. How afraid we are to be alone and how difficult it is to be together. We are all different, yet we share profound commonality and music helps express every facet.

The Thought Train

As a young boy, I remember a day when I woke early and rode my motorcycle into the mountains above our farm in northern Nevada.  I stopped on the side of a huge mountain. For most of the day I sat in the profound silence, thinking, without interruption.

I was asked by a friend once for my definition of luxury and that day came to mind. Luxury, for me, is a long period of uninterrupted thought.

It’s interesting that we liken thought to a train. A train of thought. It takes a good amount of energy to get a train going, then once it’s speeding along any little bit of cross traffic can derail it.

I’ll be out of town until next Monday.  I hope to spend a few days on that long luxurious train.

I encourage you to take some time, clear the track and reacquaint yourself with an intimate friend.  Spend some time with you.

Can you remember a time when you were able to truly be alone in the luxury of thought?  I'd like to hear your insights. 

Have a good week and I’ll see you when the train comes back to the station.

Egg on your face

Six-fifteen this morning Kathy, Lindsay and I sat down to breakfast. Lindsay was about to scurry off to zero period (biology at seven in the morning - good grief), Kathy, off to a client and me off to write before I start my real job. Casually, Kathy says, "You've got a little egg on your face." (real egg on an actual face - I won't say whose face)

This started a brief conversation about colloquialisms and idioms. Lindsay had never heard the saying and in that moment, the phrase was passed from one generation to the next. I don't know the origin, but it is a strange one.

Do any of you know where this comes from, do you have a guess?

I'd enjoy hearing your insights and thoughts, please comment.

I hope the answer isn't painfully obvious and simple, I'd hate to end up with "egg on my face."

War Breaks Out in Southern California!

Local news agencies chased the elusive story vigorously. Teams of reporters, in full weather regalia, scattered to the dry, burnt hills. The worst October storm to hit Southern California in forty years shone in vast animated yellow patches on the "Live super sophisticated only cute non-working actresses can interpret doppler poppler thing-a-ma-jig." Tie a dinghy to the back porch folks! We're going in.

As I sat in the fine drizzling mist of Wednesday's storm, amused by the media blitz, I was reminded of the constant war waged over this strip of land we call Southern California. A mighty ocean, cold and vast, pushes against the shore on one side. A huge arid desert, swelters and blows hard against the mountains on the other side. The war between these titans never stop, we are merely serfs scurrying in the shadows of the mighty castle walls. (Wednesday in jackets and umbrellas, today shorts and flip-flops)

I'm a simple man and I wrote a book. Among the towering publishing giants and powerful literary agents, I'm like that little strip of land. Trends, genres, hopes for the next publishing bonanza push hot and cold through the industry and here I sit, with my little book. Here I sit with a simple hope, to share this adventure with you, in the shadow of the mighty sanctions that wage war outside the door. To escape for a short while, together.

Day's Rain

In the night they came, wet diamonds falling from the sky. Softly against the glass the droplets gathered. A mesmerizing hush.

Today, I write.

The Smoke of Battle

Doubt and confusion are weapons an adversary uses to defeat his enemy. This morning, my enemy is active and effective. I received my first rejection yesterday and as I try to write this morning, I'm second guessing everything. Normally, the words flow, I reread, rewrite and a rhythm begins. This morning I'm thinking about commas, sentence fragments and spelling. The rejection was professional and constructive, nothing Sunday morning fellowship with friends, a motorcycle ride along the beach and time with family can't put back into perspective.
This morning, however, hand grenades are being lobbed into the vulnerable portions of my head. I am bombarded with so many thoughts, emotions and images that I can scarcely catch a glimpse as they rush past. At the same time, I feel a haunting wind blow through with biting creative emptiness.
I love to write, but I'm not mechanically sound. I need to work harder. I must work smarter, but at this very moment, the grenades bang and flash. The smoke of battle. I need to step back, regroup, rearm and prepare for the next round.

As always, any suggestions, editing or insights are welcome.

The Light Heavy Wait

The mind in wait is the playground of demons and saints.

The heavy wait
Any parent listening for the sound of the garage door an hour after their child was supposed to be home, has slogged through the surreal land of wait. In the limbo, restrictors let the demons loose and a cocktail of chemicals are released in the brain that evoke a hallucinogenic rambling strong enough to bring any man to his knees. It's vivid and detailed, his daughter has slid off of the road, rain falling on her face through a shattered windshield. One after the other they flood in and the second he hears the door, the restrictors cut off the cocktail, the visions vanish and he feels an utter fool. The long hug is filled with relief and anger as he says, "I love you, I'm so glad you're home. Don't ever put me through that again."

The light wait
The boy couldn't keep his eyes off of her and the first time they talked he couldn't believe his good fortune. Now, he waits at the bottom of the stair, his mind wandering into the unrestricted land of wait. The softness of her lips, the reflection of the moon in her blue eyes, their silhouette etched into the seascape. It is so real, the hope in the time of wait. She appears, the wait is over, she stumbles, he pokes her with the corsage pin and a perfect night begins in the imaginary moonlight.

The light/heavy-wait
Waiting to hear from WordServe is a mixture of both wait classes. An hour or two after submitting the query letter, my email "pinged" a new email. In the tiny wait before clicking the message, I drifted into the waiting room. I thought, that might be Rachelle responding to my submission! I've hit the impossible shot! Could it be? Could it be? * Click * AT&T with an offer for, who cares. I laugh at myself, what a fool, but that's how it is in the land of wait. As I dwell in this land, I'm fighting not to believe the opposite image. The fine folks at WordServe Literary Group are having one hellacious laugh over the comedy of my submission. When aspiring writers enter the lobby, my query is framed and hangs under a sign that says, "Perfect example of a BAD proposal."

The land of wait has weight, light and heavy, please put me out of my agony, but don't crush my dream. I know, it's a lot to ask.

The Query's Out

It's out there, my first query letter. I chose a group in Colorado, WordServe Literary Group. Now I wait. It's the oddest sensation, sitting behind my laptop as the Starbuck's line shuffle past, I want to jump up and tell everyone and I want to crawl into a hole with embarrassment. Adrenaline is white water rafting through my veins. If a car rolled over in the parking lot, I could lift it and tell the rescued occupants that a literary submission saved their lives.

It's going to be an interesting few days.