I entered into the world of blogs for a couple reasons. To promote my books certainly was number one. The second reason was that I viewed a blog as a fun outlay of words and thoughts. A blog is a writer's canvas to be able to muse, vent, rant, and express their opinions. Quite an interesting public area where one's words can be viewed, commented on, castised, or loved.
I wrote one blog, Loving Deeply/Slowly. It is still my most viewed post. The comments and reactions to it promoted me to start writing a romance novel. Quite a switch for a guy who has written two mystery/detective books. Did I let my target audience sway me into writing a romance? I don't think so. To be honest, I think that the idea was already within my synapsis's.
I have learned a lot of lessons so far in blogging. Some personal, some professionally related to my future novels yet to be written. Stereotyping, even within one's own blog is bad. And good I suppose. Bad, because it is not how I am in my day to day life. So why does it come out in my words? Well, perhaps it is just because everyone out there has differnet opinions. Which is healthy. Good I suppose, in that a blog full of assertions, opinions, and even stereotypes fuels conversations, and actually gets people to view the blog. Many a writer has told me that you haven't 'made it' as an author until you start to get some negative reviews on your books. I'm not there yet, as all of my reviews are positive. I guess I have to be a little more controversial, or scathing, or something. But that's just not me.
I like learning lessons. It makes one grow as a person. Sappy I suppose, but true. I actually listen to those around me, and try to assimilate their opinions. Pulling sometimes valuable things out of conversations or thoughts. That's just me.
The romance book? Well, guilty pleasure or not. I am writing three times as fast in it as I ever have before while drafting my mystery novels. Who knows what will become of it, although I have been told that 50% of the readers out there read romance novels. Wow. quite a stat.
So... blogging is fun.... I find it a way to organzie my thoughts, goals, and center my focus. That is all cathartic. I actually deleted two posts that I wrote over the past week. They weren't good posts, in the simple matter that I wasn't proud of the writing. First time that's ever happened. But I know why. I had felt pressured to post something, anything, to keep the blog fresh. But really I didn't have anything worthwhile to say. My creative thoughts have been on writing of late. My book. Not my blog. Interesting lesson to learn with respect to blogging. Only blog when you have an entertaining series of thoughts that will invoke others to read all the way to the end. Food for thought.
In the future I doubt I will blog as much. I will do it for me. Not because I should post something. I have no desire to put my name to something that I am not proud of in the written word. The word 'proud' is an interesting one. I feel that it's my blog, my opinion. Yet, as a writer the prose should be written in such a creative manner that I'm proud of it. The pride similar to that when I received the first copy of my book, and looked upon the bright cover. The pride of knowing that someone who had read my first novel kept after me to write a second.
Lessons to be learned in life. Who knew blogs were so helpful...
w.w.w.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Friday, September 9, 2011
Big W the tenth "Chpt 1&2 - A Home with no Roof"
Sneak Preview - First chapter and a half of "A Home with no Roof" Just released on amazon.com. Click on the blog title to go to amazon and download it to be further entertained!!! Much appreciated...
~~ 1 ~~
I know from whence I came, although I have no memories. In my unfinished home I accept visitors daily, although they are uninvited. I see everything and everyone around me, yet no one can see me. Flashbulbs sear my eyes every day, although I never have my picture taken. A grassy knoll creates a luxurious carpet in my living room, which is surrounded by stone archways that support no roof. I slink from my tunnel and gaze up into the open sky at night, when all the guests that visit my humble abode have departed. Music plays in my head, classical tones that should be soothing and calming although no peace exists within my tortured mind. I am continually at odds to discover and confront who I am.
Often times the music is so loud and intrusive that I have to beat my head continually against the stone wall to make it stop. I pass the really bad days secluded in a secret place where none of the visitors to my home can see me. A few times a month, not that I truly feel the passage of time, real music plays within the open walls of my home for a while. I do not invite the musicians into my home, although they play here for hours. This music seems to drown out the tortured tones issuing from within my synapses for awhile. The musicians are accompanied by numerous visitors to my home. Often a ceremony is held within the open walls of my living room although I don’t invite them to hold their court here. The sky above my home creates an artistic backup for the ceremonies. Very picturesque I think. The ceremonies appear to celebrate two figures, one clad all in white and the other all in black. I would rather wear black. When the ceremonies occur, it is a dangerous time for me. I hide in one of my many secret spots and spy on the intruders, trying to hold back the black thoughts that run through my head. The music played outside during the ceremonies eases the pain in my head. I never ask any of the visitors to stay and keep me company on days when it plays. Part of me knows that it would be too dangerous to do so. I don’t always listen to that voice; I try to, but it’s hard sometimes. It’s nice and quiet once they all leave. I like the quiet. Sometimes I also wish that I could have a radio in my home. It would be really nice to play what I want on the radio. When I hear a song I liked, I could turn it up loudly and sing along. It’s not always fun having a radio if other people always get to decide what plays on it. That’s what I think anyways. It would also be fun to have a bird. A cute little parrot. Repeating everything I said. Funny, but cute.
Lying on my back now, buffeted by the springy grass beneath me, I stare up at the sky in my living room. Tiny dots of bright searing brilliance litter the night sky above me. I like that the roof of my home was never finished, as I enjoy staring up and seeing the brilliant dots of light. At least I think I do. I ponder for a moment when she will come for me. I know that she will, but I don’t know when. Seven times a day I turn this thought over in my mind. Not six, or eight, but seven times every day I think of her, although I can’t visualize her face in my head. She will come for me, although I don’t know if she will be happy with my new home. Maybe she’ll want a roof over our heads. I wouldn’t want to finish the roof of my home, it’s perfect without one. This way we can lay back and stare up at the dots of light. Fun.
A flood of thoughts pulls me out of that place in my head where I go to think of her. As I return to the present, I can still feel the cool grass blades caressing my body. I know that when I arise there will be a depression of my shape remaining in the green carpet. I know that the depression will fade quickly as it always does, although I wish that it would stay there forever. I also bet that the back of my legs will have thin marks up and down them, where I laid on the grass blades. Those marks are neat.
Standing now, I stride toward the vaulted stone archway that leads to where I sleep. I’m not at all sleepy at the moment but I know that I have to attend to the visitor that I have staying with me now. She might be awake, although I doubt it as I hit her pretty hard on the head earlier before I left to roam out into the night. She has been with me for two days now. I took her after all the other visitors had left my home the other day. She wasn’t too smart to loiter around after everyone else had gone because that’s when I come out to play and find a special visitor to stay with me. They never say no, although they don’t get the chance to argue. I like having guests stay with me to keep me company. They don’t have much fun, but I do, so it’s okay.
~~ 2 ~~
Detective First-Grade Scott Mathias was enjoying his morning so far as he walked from police headquarters down to the immense cruise ship docked at port, butting up to the pier at Hamilton. Having been promoted up to First-Grade a couple months ago after solving a string of high level cases, Scott felt as if he was living life to the fullest. This morning it seemed as if the sun was shining down on his little part of the island solely in an effort to brighten his day. Everything seemed more colorful and brilliant today. The pastel colors on houses that he had passed a hundred times before seemed more vivid today for some reason. Scott’s new wife Lily had announced to him that she was pregnant last night and nothing could darken his mood today. He was so full of good thoughts this morning as his mind filled with joy at the wonderful times that he would have with a child of his own. Everyone that he knew kept telling him that he would make a great father and he was so looking forward to it. He felt that he was truly walking with his head up in the clouds today. Having met Lily last year during an intense bank theft case that he had been working, the two of them had been truly inseparable ever since. They had happily married about two months ago because they were truly in love and also so that Lily could stay on the island. She had only been on Bermuda on a graduate visa to engage in a work study program at the Bermuda Underwater Exploratory Institute (the BUEI). By getting married, she could now stay on the island as long as she wanted. Of course the paperwork involved had still been extremely daunting to complete.
Striding easily along the sidewalk teeming with tourists from the massive cruise ship, Scott weaved through the throngs of people. They were all hungrily seeking out good shopping spots and bringing large amounts of tourist money to the island. Scott smoothed his navy gabardine trousers with one hand, holding a cup of coffee in the other and crossed the street. His purposeful gait propelled his six foot two frame across the busy intersection of downtown Hamilton as he headed for the cruise ship. He could have easily given this morning’s task to one of the junior detectives, but he figured that it would be nice to get out in the sun, so he took the call himself to go and see what was amiss on the ship. Ruffling his hand through his dark brown hair, Scott looked up at the huge vessel dwarfing the pier against which it rested. All of the cruise ships had their own security personnel on board, but if something happened to a guest while they were out engaging in activities in town, then the local police were called in to provide their expertise. Having received just such a call about twenty minutes ago, Scott headed up the gang plank to find security officer Ron Jonas who had contacted them from the ship.
~~ 1 ~~
I know from whence I came, although I have no memories. In my unfinished home I accept visitors daily, although they are uninvited. I see everything and everyone around me, yet no one can see me. Flashbulbs sear my eyes every day, although I never have my picture taken. A grassy knoll creates a luxurious carpet in my living room, which is surrounded by stone archways that support no roof. I slink from my tunnel and gaze up into the open sky at night, when all the guests that visit my humble abode have departed. Music plays in my head, classical tones that should be soothing and calming although no peace exists within my tortured mind. I am continually at odds to discover and confront who I am.
Often times the music is so loud and intrusive that I have to beat my head continually against the stone wall to make it stop. I pass the really bad days secluded in a secret place where none of the visitors to my home can see me. A few times a month, not that I truly feel the passage of time, real music plays within the open walls of my home for a while. I do not invite the musicians into my home, although they play here for hours. This music seems to drown out the tortured tones issuing from within my synapses for awhile. The musicians are accompanied by numerous visitors to my home. Often a ceremony is held within the open walls of my living room although I don’t invite them to hold their court here. The sky above my home creates an artistic backup for the ceremonies. Very picturesque I think. The ceremonies appear to celebrate two figures, one clad all in white and the other all in black. I would rather wear black. When the ceremonies occur, it is a dangerous time for me. I hide in one of my many secret spots and spy on the intruders, trying to hold back the black thoughts that run through my head. The music played outside during the ceremonies eases the pain in my head. I never ask any of the visitors to stay and keep me company on days when it plays. Part of me knows that it would be too dangerous to do so. I don’t always listen to that voice; I try to, but it’s hard sometimes. It’s nice and quiet once they all leave. I like the quiet. Sometimes I also wish that I could have a radio in my home. It would be really nice to play what I want on the radio. When I hear a song I liked, I could turn it up loudly and sing along. It’s not always fun having a radio if other people always get to decide what plays on it. That’s what I think anyways. It would also be fun to have a bird. A cute little parrot. Repeating everything I said. Funny, but cute.
Lying on my back now, buffeted by the springy grass beneath me, I stare up at the sky in my living room. Tiny dots of bright searing brilliance litter the night sky above me. I like that the roof of my home was never finished, as I enjoy staring up and seeing the brilliant dots of light. At least I think I do. I ponder for a moment when she will come for me. I know that she will, but I don’t know when. Seven times a day I turn this thought over in my mind. Not six, or eight, but seven times every day I think of her, although I can’t visualize her face in my head. She will come for me, although I don’t know if she will be happy with my new home. Maybe she’ll want a roof over our heads. I wouldn’t want to finish the roof of my home, it’s perfect without one. This way we can lay back and stare up at the dots of light. Fun.
A flood of thoughts pulls me out of that place in my head where I go to think of her. As I return to the present, I can still feel the cool grass blades caressing my body. I know that when I arise there will be a depression of my shape remaining in the green carpet. I know that the depression will fade quickly as it always does, although I wish that it would stay there forever. I also bet that the back of my legs will have thin marks up and down them, where I laid on the grass blades. Those marks are neat.
Standing now, I stride toward the vaulted stone archway that leads to where I sleep. I’m not at all sleepy at the moment but I know that I have to attend to the visitor that I have staying with me now. She might be awake, although I doubt it as I hit her pretty hard on the head earlier before I left to roam out into the night. She has been with me for two days now. I took her after all the other visitors had left my home the other day. She wasn’t too smart to loiter around after everyone else had gone because that’s when I come out to play and find a special visitor to stay with me. They never say no, although they don’t get the chance to argue. I like having guests stay with me to keep me company. They don’t have much fun, but I do, so it’s okay.
~~ 2 ~~
Detective First-Grade Scott Mathias was enjoying his morning so far as he walked from police headquarters down to the immense cruise ship docked at port, butting up to the pier at Hamilton. Having been promoted up to First-Grade a couple months ago after solving a string of high level cases, Scott felt as if he was living life to the fullest. This morning it seemed as if the sun was shining down on his little part of the island solely in an effort to brighten his day. Everything seemed more colorful and brilliant today. The pastel colors on houses that he had passed a hundred times before seemed more vivid today for some reason. Scott’s new wife Lily had announced to him that she was pregnant last night and nothing could darken his mood today. He was so full of good thoughts this morning as his mind filled with joy at the wonderful times that he would have with a child of his own. Everyone that he knew kept telling him that he would make a great father and he was so looking forward to it. He felt that he was truly walking with his head up in the clouds today. Having met Lily last year during an intense bank theft case that he had been working, the two of them had been truly inseparable ever since. They had happily married about two months ago because they were truly in love and also so that Lily could stay on the island. She had only been on Bermuda on a graduate visa to engage in a work study program at the Bermuda Underwater Exploratory Institute (the BUEI). By getting married, she could now stay on the island as long as she wanted. Of course the paperwork involved had still been extremely daunting to complete.
Striding easily along the sidewalk teeming with tourists from the massive cruise ship, Scott weaved through the throngs of people. They were all hungrily seeking out good shopping spots and bringing large amounts of tourist money to the island. Scott smoothed his navy gabardine trousers with one hand, holding a cup of coffee in the other and crossed the street. His purposeful gait propelled his six foot two frame across the busy intersection of downtown Hamilton as he headed for the cruise ship. He could have easily given this morning’s task to one of the junior detectives, but he figured that it would be nice to get out in the sun, so he took the call himself to go and see what was amiss on the ship. Ruffling his hand through his dark brown hair, Scott looked up at the huge vessel dwarfing the pier against which it rested. All of the cruise ships had their own security personnel on board, but if something happened to a guest while they were out engaging in activities in town, then the local police were called in to provide their expertise. Having received just such a call about twenty minutes ago, Scott headed up the gang plank to find security officer Ron Jonas who had contacted them from the ship.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Big W the ninth - "Writer's Block"
Writer's Block.... Those two words speak volumes. Well, negative volumes for that matter. Lack thereof. If a picture is worth a thousand words, then those two words are void of thoughts, ideas, and any semblance of coherrent thought.
Picture a crew on a ship in the middle of the ocean. They have no wind. They are not going anywhere fast are they. A writer, with the BLOCK.... they're not going anywhere either.
It's been a troubling week. My mind feels like it's being pulled in a thousand different directions at once. Between a very demanding day-job (can't I make it as a writer soon and forget my day-job?--probably not), and an interesting personal life, all the social media out there, and everything I can not seem to focus my thoughts enough to sit down and write.
Even my blog has suffered. I haven't been able to write in days. So...what does any smart guy do? Write about how he can't write. At least... Get....the....words....flowing.... Write something.
I did do a guest post on someone else's blog this week. It actually took me a few tries to get it right, because I was so hurried and felt like my four arms were being pulled in different directions by horses galloping for the four corners of the earth. (Hey, nice image... the words are flowing now).
I haven't found time at home to sit down and write (see demaning, interesting personal life dilemmas).... I hate when that happens. I hate wasting hours in front of the television. But that's what you do when you can't focus your brain I suppose. I believe the term is 'vegging out.' Or simply trying to appease the other people in your house.
I can write... I've always been able to...
Have written poems when dating women my entire life. Am never at a loss of things to say. I actually crafted fun 'chapters' of a cute old couple to one woman I was dating back years ago. It was just as fun to write them as it was to hear how entertaining they were for the person to read. The joy was when on a slow Friday afternoon at work, they would write to me and say "hey, I'm bored and don't want to work anymore....Entertain me!!" Always my pleasure.
Women are better than Paris in the springtime. More enjoyable than sitting in a olden square in Florence sipping chianti and enjoying a plate of caprese. Anytime I have a woman to write about, the words seem to flow out of me. Why is that? So much to say? Or so many experiences to draw from?
I do get called to the mat once in awhile... One of my books has a scene in it where one of the characters uses her toes to pull off the man's boxers in an intimate scene. Sadly, someone I work with asked me if that was a real life experience. I simply blushed... Innocent little me.
So.... it has been good to write again... Thank you for listening (and hopefully enjoying) the rant.
I have decided to write a period based romance novel... And am very excited to begin it. It's different than anything that I've ever done, but I know I will be up to the task. The question is whether I'll be smiling the ENTIRE way through. Imagining what situations to put my characters in next. That, is the pleasure of writing. It's enjoyable and fun.
So... I'm off to start it. Right now. No excuses... Just fingers on the keyboard, and start. Go back and edit later... It doesn't have to be a work of art right out of the gate. That's what CP's are for. Valued as they are. To clean up the ramblings of a person who's mind works faster than his fingers can type.
Go write. Now.
Picture a crew on a ship in the middle of the ocean. They have no wind. They are not going anywhere fast are they. A writer, with the BLOCK.... they're not going anywhere either.
It's been a troubling week. My mind feels like it's being pulled in a thousand different directions at once. Between a very demanding day-job (can't I make it as a writer soon and forget my day-job?--probably not), and an interesting personal life, all the social media out there, and everything I can not seem to focus my thoughts enough to sit down and write.
Even my blog has suffered. I haven't been able to write in days. So...what does any smart guy do? Write about how he can't write. At least... Get....the....words....flowing.... Write something.
I did do a guest post on someone else's blog this week. It actually took me a few tries to get it right, because I was so hurried and felt like my four arms were being pulled in different directions by horses galloping for the four corners of the earth. (Hey, nice image... the words are flowing now).
I haven't found time at home to sit down and write (see demaning, interesting personal life dilemmas).... I hate when that happens. I hate wasting hours in front of the television. But that's what you do when you can't focus your brain I suppose. I believe the term is 'vegging out.' Or simply trying to appease the other people in your house.
I can write... I've always been able to...
Have written poems when dating women my entire life. Am never at a loss of things to say. I actually crafted fun 'chapters' of a cute old couple to one woman I was dating back years ago. It was just as fun to write them as it was to hear how entertaining they were for the person to read. The joy was when on a slow Friday afternoon at work, they would write to me and say "hey, I'm bored and don't want to work anymore....Entertain me!!" Always my pleasure.
Women are better than Paris in the springtime. More enjoyable than sitting in a olden square in Florence sipping chianti and enjoying a plate of caprese. Anytime I have a woman to write about, the words seem to flow out of me. Why is that? So much to say? Or so many experiences to draw from?
I do get called to the mat once in awhile... One of my books has a scene in it where one of the characters uses her toes to pull off the man's boxers in an intimate scene. Sadly, someone I work with asked me if that was a real life experience. I simply blushed... Innocent little me.
So.... it has been good to write again... Thank you for listening (and hopefully enjoying) the rant.
I have decided to write a period based romance novel... And am very excited to begin it. It's different than anything that I've ever done, but I know I will be up to the task. The question is whether I'll be smiling the ENTIRE way through. Imagining what situations to put my characters in next. That, is the pleasure of writing. It's enjoyable and fun.
So... I'm off to start it. Right now. No excuses... Just fingers on the keyboard, and start. Go back and edit later... It doesn't have to be a work of art right out of the gate. That's what CP's are for. Valued as they are. To clean up the ramblings of a person who's mind works faster than his fingers can type.
Go write. Now.
Friday, September 2, 2011
Big W the eight - "Henry the Eight I am"
I had to do it... Please don't shoot me.... Course, with a devilish grin I must admit that I looked forward to it.... in my Big W the "nth"... counting... I could see Big W the eight coming up soon... Images of an annoying, yet charming man in such and such a movie (can't admit to seeing it), walking around a bedroom chanting and chanting until he got his way.... charming? well at first.. then.. yes... annoying.
I'm Henry the 8th I am,
Henry the 8th I am, I am,
I got married to the widow next door,
She's been married 7 times before,
And every one was a Henry (Henry),
She wouldn't have a Willy or a Sam (no Sam)
I'm her 8th old man I Henry,
Henry the 8th I am
Second verse same as the first
I'm Henry the 8th I am,
Henry the 8th I am, I am,
I got married to the widow next door,
She's been married 7 times before,
And every one was a Henry (Henry),
She wouldn't have a Willy or a Sam (no Sam)
I'm her 8th old man I Henry,
Henry the 8th I am
Okay, I got that out of my system.... whew!!!
Has any man ever used such childish games to get a woman to do what he wants? Not a very effective means of communication... and perhaps during initial courting (just once), might be deemed as adorable.. (for a few verses).... but there are plenty of other ways to win a woman's heart.
The smile of any woman, gracing down upon you is more lovely than Paris in the Springtime....but if a man utilizes the silliness above, then please know that although you may get a smile, in her head the woman is pondering whether or not you are truly daft... (or worse, that she is daft to be in the same room with you).... so don't do it.
Devilish, sly little grin. Perhaps just once.
w.w.w.
I'm Henry the 8th I am,
Henry the 8th I am, I am,
I got married to the widow next door,
She's been married 7 times before,
And every one was a Henry (Henry),
She wouldn't have a Willy or a Sam (no Sam)
I'm her 8th old man I Henry,
Henry the 8th I am
Second verse same as the first
I'm Henry the 8th I am,
Henry the 8th I am, I am,
I got married to the widow next door,
She's been married 7 times before,
And every one was a Henry (Henry),
She wouldn't have a Willy or a Sam (no Sam)
I'm her 8th old man I Henry,
Henry the 8th I am
Okay, I got that out of my system.... whew!!!
Has any man ever used such childish games to get a woman to do what he wants? Not a very effective means of communication... and perhaps during initial courting (just once), might be deemed as adorable.. (for a few verses).... but there are plenty of other ways to win a woman's heart.
The smile of any woman, gracing down upon you is more lovely than Paris in the Springtime....but if a man utilizes the silliness above, then please know that although you may get a smile, in her head the woman is pondering whether or not you are truly daft... (or worse, that she is daft to be in the same room with you).... so don't do it.
Devilish, sly little grin. Perhaps just once.
w.w.w.
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