Thought-Drive

So I have this pair of jeans. I bought them to replace a pair I had from the 90s. It didn't occur to me then, how long clothes, especially jeans, can last, and how important it is to get the correct size and preferable fit. At the time I was just tired. I had driven a long way only to find that they were a little long, and slightly too big. I paid without thinking; I paid for years because I didn't think. Fast forward to now, and they're starting to fall apart, because of wear and because they were too big to begin with. A large hole in the knee finally became too large to ignore, then when I did ignore it, it became even larger. A friend had access to sewing supplies, and gave me instruction on how patching works. I don't know what the fabric was for originally, but it was presented to me as durable and sturdy, and the white color was similar in hue to the faded denim of the thigh and what was left of the knee. I went to work, and after stabbing myself a dozen times, ...

A lot has been said about the margin of error. Or victory. How small it can be, and how such a small thing increases the size and meaning of easy-to-overlook details. I personally love Al Pacino's speech from Any Given Sunday . The cover for the first book has been done for months. For a similar span, the book has been available for purchase electronically at non-Amazon type places. I get a royalty check here and there. The plan, though, the plan was to push things through over at Amazon in the same interval to become visible to that many more readers. There was a whole timeline, which I dismantled with my incompetence. First the file was in the wrong format, so I had to go back to my artist. Then, it required one image, which included the front cover, the spine, and the back cover. I went back to my artist again. He was very kind to me, making all these after-the-fact changes. All of this because I wanted to fix an issue I had going back some nine years now. At my publisher, be...

Not a whole lot to report on the writing end. I've organized my to-do lists, and like every other time recently, was surprised at how much I'm not doing. I have three novels I could be submitting to agents, but I never developed a good system for generating the kind of volume I need to make that worthwhile. There are a lot of success stories about people finding agents, but on average it takes dozens and dozens of submissions before anything sticks. While I'm working on edits, maybe that's something I'll do: make yet another list. In the mean time I looked at this image in layers. First was the first-response factor; did I like it in and of itself. Then the content factor; did it do what I needed it to do as a cover for the novel resting behind it. On to the logistic factor; thinking about the issues last time, where does my byline go, and the title, and does that obscure any of the finer elements to be placed later. I'm happy when I think about the even...

Been a while. So long that I can't really remember when I last wrote here, or what about. I have a distant recollection of some ambitious plan perfumed with an abundance of optimism. I'm not going to be a downer. I'll just say that I've learned a lot. Today I sit in a laundromat while my dirty clothes rotate in soapy water. I always wondered about those people, in the movies and TV shows, sorting garments and slotting coins. I can now add that experience to the list of recent experiences. I don't see the same people regularly like I thought I would. I don't have any conversations with strangers like I hoped I would. Like I feared I would.  But the weekly chore-ritual has settled into its place, predictable and quantifiable. What I haven't been able to work through as yet is the writing. And I guess that part is a bit debatable. An artist friend professes that thinking about writing, outlining, sketching, even drafting temporary, unrelated things counts....

Every now and again I hear a story about a conspiracy of events, where a person is in the right place at the right time, having just experienced a prepatory series of events that puts them in the right mind space to receive whatever opportunity. I always wonder if it's the human brain seeking to order events in retrospect into some sort of providence, or if it really is a stroke of the divine. Yesterday I was up in the mountains of Blue Ridge. A friend was having a celebration, and I had been asked months previous if I would attend. It being so far removed, and the request being so vague, I agreed without giving it much thought. Had I had all the information ahead of time, my answer very likely would've been different. However, as I sit here delivered, having passed through the crucible safe and sound, I'm glad I went. "When they told me you were coming, I didn't believe it." That's what my friend, the guest of honor said. I couldn't refute the ...

I don't keep physical lists of things I need to do. Rather, I keep mental lists that I obsess over continuously. I moved recently, and going from apartment to apartment, there's a lot to do, a lot of ends and beginnings. Internet and utilities, account numbers and ending balances. Changes of address. I didn't have the internet for a few weeks, and not for a lack of trying. I learned a lot about modems and MAC numbers and networking and customer service. From my one favorite chair, I toured the world as I was transferred again and again. I felt bad for the people who had to read me scripts about how much they cared about my problems and couldn't use their real names. All of it was a great opportunity to put things off. I haven't written on the new novel, and difficulties in the lives of my editor and my illustrator ground the publishing to a halt as well. I took a cue from their situations and stopped working myself. Work picked up along with the summer heat and.....

I imagine that if I read more how-to books about writing, or read any at all, I'd know more about why certain writers write, and how writing came to certain authors. I know that for me, in the beginning, before being in college and having a mentor, before filling notebooks with stories instead of class notes, before I chose to write to articulate my frustrations and confusions, before all of that I had images multiplying in my head. My parents chided me for making sound effects with my mouth as I walked ruts in the carpet, from the kitchen, to the dining room, through the den, down the hallway, over and over and over again. They'd pick me up and sit me down on the couch, or tell me to go to my room, whatever it took to make it stop. I don't know where it came from, but I do know that I was never good at staying in the lines, or shading, or coloring. I had plenty of mental images, but there was a disconnect between what I saw behind my eyes and what I could create with my u...