A Pursuit of Publishment

The Greeting Card Route

2010-04-02T07:56:00.000-07:00

Why not? I'll try anything at this point. Besides, it's a resume builder. So I just sent in five greeting cards to Shoebox. I don't expect any interest because it's always best to anticipate the worst. I find low expectations seem to go hand in hand with the low self-confidence model I seem to adhere to.

The other reason I have no chance is possibly the product, like the two I submitted below (it's actually easy to do, just follow the instructions at shoebox greeting card submission:

Rejection from Writer's Digest comes fast but not fast enough!.

2010-03-19T06:59:00.000-07:00

Well, to the three or four folks who are following my progress here (and are not my mom), you might recall that two and half weeks ago I submitted a query to Writer's Digest about publishing my little story, A Tribute to J. D. Salinger As Told By Holden Caulfield, in their magazine. They said that it usually takes 8 to 12 weeks to get back to inquiries. I laughed in their general direction, as they have yet to be queried by me, the King of the Unpublished, who wrote the manifesto, Eight Lessons for the Unpublished. My rejection would come swiftly. I was certain.

And just a mere three days ago I received the following rejection: "Thanks for taking the time to send us your query, and please pardon the delay in our response. While this particular query does not meet our present publication needs, we do thank you again for thinking of us. Best of luck placing the piece elsewhere."

"... please pardon the delay", holy smokes! I'm sorry! Pardon not accepted. I could have been rejected in less than two weeks time without that delay, and I'm pretty sure that would have landed me in Ripley's Believe It or Not.

But noooo! They were too nonchalant about the whole matter.

So I sent them a response expressing my disappointment, demanding that those responsible for the delay are never allowed to reject so cavalierly again.

The noive.

They say we should write every day!

2010-03-07T07:06:00.000-08:00

Well they do.

Of course, I haven't a clue as to who "they" are. And they never quite let us know—for example, with an official spreadsheet of "they" names certified with some sort of "they" seal. Instead, it's all quite mysterious if you ask me. But they are saying it just the same, which makes it tough on the rest of us, because they really never tell us how they made the leap from "we" to "they". As a matter of clarity, by "we" I mean those of us who desire to be "they" some day so we can say "they" kind of things.

That really is the crux of the problem. We want to be "they" but can't because they never reveal how to. They purposely throw out their cute, little red herrings that have little to do with getting into the "they" circle. Personally, I think the whole thing is a big scheme to throw "we" off track, thus keeping us down and their little secret club ... well ... little.

"We should write every day." Boy! Thanks "they"! Thanks for sharing! Could you be any more forthcoming? I suggest not!

Don't forget. This is the same bunch who say all that stuff about good health.

"They say you should have liver once a week."
"Says who?"
"They do! That's who."
"They do?"
"Yup!"
"Geeh, then I'm gonna die sure as shootin'."

It's enough to make you nuts. "Liver once a week." They are trying to kill us is what they are doing. Oh, it's just a part of their big plans to take over the country (with the exception of certain New Jersey shore destinations).

And here is something else I noticed. It's always another "we" who is telling me what "they" are saying. It's not like I ever hear from the horses mouth.

"So how do you know what "they" said?"
"I heard it from a reliable source."
"Was it a "they"?"
"No. I don't think so. It was Benny."
"He's no they!"
"You're telling me!"

They say, "write every day." That's just brilliant. It's right up there with, "they say you should exercise sixty minutes every day." No kidding. but who has the time for that. I'll betcha dollars to doughnuts "they" don't (well I would if I knew what "dollars to doughnuts" even meant, which I'm not expecting they will tell me any time soon).

I'll tell you what I'm hoping for. I'm sure hoping that Dan Brown is working on exposing this "they" crowd. It needs to be turned inside out because there is a lot of stuff they aren't telling us. And Danny boy is just the guy to do it!

Finally, just to put an explanation point on my thoughts about these so called "theys", this dumb post is my writing for the day (as "they" say I should do), and I'm sure you'd agree a whole lotta good it's gonna do me.

That'll learn'em for sure.

When will I ever learn about Craigslist and Jobs?

2010-03-01T11:52:00.000-08:00

I decided to get nuts. And when I get nuts, I go to Craigslist. It's like the nexus of the nuts universe. If it's not in Craigslist, then it's not worth not pursuing. Besides, I hadn't been there in quite some time really—well actually, ever since the last time I went. So to say I wasn't getting that old tinkle drop feeling of anticipation wouldn't be fair. I was.

Now the instigator of all this was some reading I've been doing about becoming a paid copywriter. It's something that suits me as far as I can tell, that is if I want to take my writing to the next level, or more accurately, the first level.

Anyway, I feverishly clicked through USA/New Jersey/Central New Jersey/Jobs/Writing and Editing. Holy Smokes! Employment! The very first one was for a Copywriter in Jersey City. I can make that commute! It'll require I take the train for the better part of morning and evening, but hey! I'm hungry! Besides, I've always felt trains are for professionals, other types of people, and copywriters. It's their badge of transportation.

Eager to learn more, I jumped to the job spec, first sentence: "Copywriter for Immediate Hire." "Hire" usually is for a job. That's a good sign. An excellent sign really. This little journey was off to a very good start.

The second spec sentence: "Copywriter is wanted to produce original print content." Fantastic! It sounds legit. If they had said something like, "Copywriter is wanted to shoe horses", which I seem to recall seeing in the past, I would have been suspicious. But no! This was for the writing copy kind of copywriter!

I was getting all deep into this now. The next offering was a humdinger: "Wage is $16 hourly and benefits are offered after trial period." Beautious for spacious skies! A hiring job that pays wages! It's like this job was meant for me. Tinkle drops commenced.

But what is it they want me to do for this terrific opportunity? It was spelled out completely in the next sentence: "Copywriters must be able to write and have extremely inventive minds." Now if that doesn't beat all get out! "Copywriters that write", that's what I do! Must have "extremely inventive minds". Although I only have one that I'm aware of, the mind I have is inventive. Why, once I tried to make uranium with my super deluxe, 32 compounds, chemistry set, with one of those spin-arounder things that anyone worth his uranium making salt knows you have to have to make isotopes. In the spirit of full disclosure, while I didn't exactly make any uranium, I did end up with a super acid that could eat its way through anything made of the cloth family, like fine table linens and satin blouses for example. I'm getting off track a little. The point is I have the inventive mind I think they are talking about.

This was way too good to be true. It was a match made 'in the internets' heaven. And to think it was in freakin' Craigslist of all places.

But wait there was more—specifically, "other important qualities". Oh boy!

"Other important qualities are initiative, creativity, artistic talent, imagination, enthusiasm, the ability to do research work, research previous adverts, energy, a sense of humor, an interest in society, a good general knowledge of facts, fashion, religion, animation, computer technology, music, history, language, psychology, politics, a weird imagination, popular taste and a knowledge of culture ..."

I was doing okay until I got to "a good general knowledge of facts, fashion, religion, animation and blah blah blah". Holy cow! I'm not sure I'm up to this. A knowledge of facts is asking a lot of one person, let alone all the rest of it. No wonder they are willing to pay $16 and hour.

But it didn't end there. It got a whole lot worse: "plus a general intellect which allows them to understand or at least try to understand almost any facet of life on earth."

Are they kidding me? They don't want a copywriter, they want Marilyn vos Savant for chrissakes! And if you don't know who she is, she just happens to be like the smartest person in this solar system (for that matter, in any other solar system that has no intelligent life forms). That's who she is! And she's dreamy to boot—for a long-in-the-tooth high IQ type that is.

It was too good to be true! Suckered again! I never learn my lesson about Craigslist. Oh, I promise you, I'll be back in there as soon as this little debacle is just a flicker in the distant writing employment horizon.

Can you believe that? "Must try to understand almost any facet of life on earth!" I'm just not up to it. I can't even figure out MTV's "Jersey Shore", and I grew up in Jersey. This is God awful this is! It's back to the drawing board for me. Unbelievable, "almost any facet of life on earth"! $16 bucks an hour down the tubes.

What a set back! What a terrible turn of events!

Update on the pursuit part of all this.

2010-02-28T08:08:00.000-08:00

Well, last week I sent off an email query to submit my piece, "A Tribute To J. D. Salinger as told by Holden Caulfield" to Writers Digest. My thought process was that given old JD was a terrific American writer and is recently dead and all, Writers Digest, being that it is about writing, might want to use the piece in a tribute of sorts to old JD. We'll see. But honestly, I think the query may have laid it on a little too thick about Writers Digest being a bit stale lately and in need of an "out there" humor piece to perk it up a little. You know, wake up the readers for an issue, then go back to the "59 ways to write a perfect prepositional phrase" kind of stuff they're famous for.

You see, that's just my problem. I always get smart-alecky, thinking that it might be considered refreshing, when it really is just smart-alecky in the end. Doesn't help me at all in my cause here, but it's all the result of that boyish urge I just can't get under control.

I also inquired of Consumerist.Com (kind of The Onion of the consumer protectionist sorts, of which I proudly consider myself a part with my Fibomercial and Scams blog), if they could use an additional writer for humor pieces about the pants-on-fire-crowd? Now this time my tone was of a serious nature. No wise guy stuff until the very end. And then it just poured out like the mischievous boy I can be. I'm so much a simpleton.

Well, that's what I've done anyway in the pursuit department. To be honest, I'm not holding my breath for any responses soon. Hell, Writers Digest tells you right up front it will take 8-12 weeks just to get to the query. By then, no one will remember who JD Salinger was. So I figure that's a lost cause. As for the Consumerist, I don't know. They offer no promises of any kind. I wasn't even sure to whom to submit the inquiry. I just picked a name from the "contact us" list that sounded the most likely to take the time to read the email and actually consider it. If you've never tried picking such a name, it's not as easy as it sounds. It takes unbelievable concentration and technique.

So none of this sounds even remotely hopeful. That is why it's back to the drawing board for me. But don't feel sorry for me thinking I'm sitting around the house all bummed out and all. I'm not. Au contraire. I'm kicking the tires on a few ideas, like one along the lines of a David Blaine stunt. It's been suggested by my son that I try living inside a giant meatball made by Mario Batali in the middle of Times Square for a month. I think I can swing the Mario part but the real problem is that Keaton has me on this no beef thing. The truth is I don't think living inside a jumbo turkey meatball has the same mass appeal and that Mario might be less inclined to have his good name associated to the whole affair. Needless to say my son agrees. But those are the kind of lines I'm thinking along anyway.

Assumptions and Hip Pocket

2010-02-24T11:06:00.000-08:00

The two traits good writers share are: 1) never assume the reader knows something unless specifically told, and 2) always have another way or two to express something in your hip pocket. Now, the truth is I was acutely aware of both from one haunting life experience. So to drive the point home and save you from having to go through what I went through, I'm going to open up the books and share that experience.

It occurred when I was dating a girl who prematurely asked me if I had feelings for her. I responded and the following conversation commenced:

I said, "Of course I do. I think you're the cat's pajamas."
She said, "What's that suppose to mean?"
I said, "Whatever you want it to mean."
She said, "Oh that's so sweet. You love me more than all the tea in China."
I said, "Oh, I'm sorry. I assumed you understood when I said 'anything you want it to mean', I meant anything as long as it has nothing to do with tea."
She said, "But that's the only way I know how to express quantities of love."
I said, "Well, doesn't that beat all get out!"

I'd say lessons learned by all.

And that's what my writing is all about Charlie Brown!

2010-02-18T07:36:00.000-08:00

I've been in a bit of an introspective mood lately. Not something I dabble in often, but when I do—oh baby! With the approaching call of employment ringing in my ears, it is this "writing thing" I do that sits right in the crosshairs of the "spection" portion of introspection.

This "writing thing" started for me back in 1995 with a romantic comedy screenplay of all things. It was called, Roomance. The premise was simple: a frustrated married couple with young daughter separate, only to unwittingly and unknowingly fall for each other in an online chat room. They arrange a series of public meetings, during which they keep running into each other, not realizing they are the chat room romance. After a number of rewrites and query submissions to literary agents, I got nowhere. Being the clueless novice I was, I submitted it to a predatory agency who read it for a fee—I think $95. For my effort and money, I got back a boiler plate response saying "author has raw talent but story line is not commercially viable".

Undaunted, I wrote another script about an overworked DYFS social worker who finds himself in the middle of a serious child sexual abuse situation with little evidence but much at stake (not so romantic or comedic I'd say). I shipped both works off to the 1996 Monterey Film Festival screen play contest at $30 a pop. Soon after, I received a letter back saying "Congratulations! Both scripts have moved onto the semi-final round." After coming down from my temporary, albeit euphoric, indulgence in Oscar award winning acceptance speeches and snappy one-liners fired off to Oprah's probing questions, I'd soon learn that the semi-final round of any writing contest is code for "entrance fee check did not bounce". Such learning is how I move about in this world.

Anyway, I recently dusted off that first script, Roomance, which by the way was written three years ahead of a movie quite similar called, "You've Got Mail" (that little commercially unsuccessful movie). And I must say, although my screenplay format was amateurish at best, the dialogue wasn't all that bad. Maybe I did have promise after all.

That was fifteen years ago. Holy smokes!

And here I am. Still standing. Still at it. Writing more than ever. Undeterred. Still delusional. Still occasionally indulging in sharp give-and-take with the likes of Jon Stewart and David Letterman. It's great boy mischief I'm having here. That is until I get in these moods. And when I do, it is almost always because I'm asking myself, why? Why write and blog at all? I mean, with the Chinese porn link attacks, and the occasional homophobic "faggot" hollering, and the intolerable stupid speak, and the rejections already. Why bother? Am I simply a glutton for punishment or vanity veiled or both? Possibly, but I'm not so sure.

Then I get an email from a reader who tells me I have inspired him/her to start writing again. That makes me feel good. Very good as a matter of fact. And who knows? Maybe with a little more talent here and a snazzy query there, they will be able to achieve that which eludes me. That would make me feel great. For a while anyway. However, it's not the reason I do this. The sad truth is, I'm not that noble. If I lean in any direction, it is towards the punishment and vanity twins. But it does get me to thinking more deeply about the reason "why", of which I'm actually quite aware.

In a nut shell, I do this because I need to, besides it's all I have. You see, it really is the old "I need to express myself" thing. And although I'd love to be an artist, I can't oil paint worth a dime—as evidenced by my own mom's (an accomplished impressionist artist in her own right) recent insistence that I paint by numbers for five years before coming back to her for my second lesson. And while I can play the guitar well enough to sing along, my vocal chords want nothing to do with the whole operation in any serious way. But I do have an ear for humor and I can turn a comic phrase now and again. The best part is that blogging offers the perfect outlet for a reluctant big mouth like me. It's a stage without that little distraction I like to call, "the audience". Perfect for an overly self-conscious, partially evolved lout like me. Just perfect!

And that's what my writing is all about Charlie Brown!

The Query Letter

2010-02-12T09:56:00.000-08:00

If I want to find an agent to help me find a publisher for my book, Cranelegs Pond the Blook, I need a connection of some sort. I need to know an insider. When I think about the connections I have, I know my son's future stepfather is a local political mucketty muck who has special connections to all sorts of people. Unfortunately, they have little to do with publishing and given the nature of the lynchpin to the connection relationship, it's a dead end for sure. So I have nothing. No connections, which shouldn't be a surprise to anyone,especially me when I consider the aversion I have to making "the connect", a cornerstone to how I've run my life.

So the only option left is a perfectly executed query letter.

It isn't much of an option quite honestly. The drop-off from a connection to the query letter in terms of effectiveness is akin to that of a truck mounted snow plow versus a Kmart plastic shovel to clear a thirty yard driveway buried in a foot of wet snow, something I know all too much about. But it is an option nonetheless, and to the delusionally optimistic, of which I'm infinitely qualified to be, it beats a poke in the eye.

The query letter needs to warm the reader with the crackle of a dry pine log fire. The truth is, a submitted query letter from an unpublished writer, which I'm highly qualified to represent, eventually meanders itself onto the "Slush" pile—an endearing term used in publishing circles to describe the tomb of the unknown writer, of which I'm a member. Now this tomb, this slush pile, usually sits there on the dark corner of an old discarded desk, piled precariously ceiling bound, mouse gnawed and soiled, waiting to be touched. And occasionally, when the power lines are down, the cell towers are failing and blackberries are fruitless (a perfect storm in the confines of a literary agent's office), an underpaid assistant to an associate agent in training just might sift through the slush, looking for one diamonique in the rough.

That my friends is what I call "writer's opportunity", and it is exactly when one's query letter must be dry pine worthy.

This odd chance to break through goes as quickly as it arrives. So it is imperative the query letter―a one page, three paragraph gem that must string thoughts together like priceless pearls on a strand―be ready. The hook, the pitch, the close. That's all you get. Furthermore, no query letter worth its slush melting salt has a killer first sentence that does not give cause to read the second sentence, and the second the third and so on and so on, eventually leading to the big finale.

So in effect, you have an opening sentence and a closing sentence sitting there like bookends to one very important, extremely short infomercial in between. But it's that first one, that first set of ten or so words that will give you half a chance to land a communiqué of inquiry.

It's all about the "hook".

Ah, the "hook"—enough to scatter the brash and tether the timid. But to the delusionally optimistic, it's “game on”. One sentence! Do or die! Bring it on!

That's as far as I've ever gotten in the past. You see, my problem is that executing "game on" is a far cry from just yapping about it, and when it comes to the yap, I'm all that. What kind of hook can I possibly concoct for my little collection of oddball blog posts called, "Cranelegs Pond the Blook"? This folks is my challenge. One I must get past.

So here goes.

I'm leaning towards the two sentence parlay. Something short and terse, followed up by something witty and catchy. How about: "A blook" you might ask? Well what else would you call a book from a blog, "a boog"? Clever but no hook. Why should someone read the next sentence? See the issue here?

Let's see. I know: "If it's good news, it must be someone else's" has been the hallmark of my mundane life, making Cranelegs Pond the Blook―a collection of odd, humorous observations―endearing to the many who share and feel my pain. Sounds good! The opening is Woody Allenish, but I'm not sure it crackles. There is a lot going on in that sentence.

There is always brevity. Something like: "If it's good news, it must be someone else's" has been my life's credo. This collection of odd observations and stories is the result.

Oh well, this has been a nice little exercise. I'm going to work on this a bit. In the meantime, if any of you have suggestions, I'm game. I've got nothin' but time and a freezer full of Snickers Bars.

Write and they shall come. Write a blog and they shall ...

2010-02-09T11:19:00.000-08:00

There is an old saying in blogging circles, "Write and they shall come. Write a blog and they shall come baring chinese porn links." I can't speak yet to the former, but the latter is a certainty. It just happened to my long running Cranelegs Pond blog. I suspect it will occur any day now at my Fibomercials and Scams blog. Here? Probably in a few months.

As for the "write and they shall come", I'm not so sure about that. I've stumbled upon a couple of very talented writers and so far, nothing in the "they shall come" column. So this idea of "they shall come" strikes me more like "hopeful delusion" if anything. And I'm probably not the first person to tell you "hopeful delusion" isn't everything it's cracked up to be. I think the old saying is better if revised to, "Write and they shall not read. Write really well and they shall not read really well stuff." You see what I mean? That sounds better. It stomps on "hopeful delusion" like Palin on elitist gonads.

Now blogging, other than being an exercise in public humiliation (similar to flogging but without the whips and blood), at least takes your writing out to the readers. Granted, you have to wrestle with those pesky hackers who love more than anything else to bring folks like you and me to our virtual knees, but the rewards can be significant. Not that I have actually seen or dabbled in any rewards. But this is the scuttlebutt I'm picking up on the street.

So with this in mind, "press on" is what I chant each and every morning, like some sort of sicko blogger's mantra. Who knows? This could be the day of big reward dabbling—although I suspect with posts like this, tomorrow is much more likely.

Shoveling snow

2010-02-06T07:43:00.000-08:00

Well, it looks as if the snow is finally tapering off, and to a serious snow shoveler such as myself, it is that time to bundle up and face the challenge at hand. Shoveling snow is something I do quite naturally, whether it’s a long, winding driveway, an optional essay question on a history exam, or a rather tricky job interview inquiry. I’m ready for any occasion. Some exercise the limbs and muscles, others the imagination and mind.

I think this blog for the most part is much the latter.

February Status Meeting

2010-02-03T13:57:00.000-08:00

Well, it's February already and time to hold the first monthly status meeting on my project to pursue publishment.

Alrighty then.
Roll call.
"Bob?"
"Presint."
"You misspelled that you idiot."
"Present."
"Better."

Excellent! Everyone is here.

I can begin by saying January saw many accomplishments:

Created this dandy blog.
Selected a project/blog theme song.
Made/posted a welcome audio to demonstrate my singing and speaking talents.
Wrote a number of what I would call very penetrating posts exposing the dark underbelly of the humor writing beast. (Well I would call them that if they were)
Submitted some great pieces to Ezine and Broowaha websites to generate a buzz.
Set up links and fantastic tags, keywords and search engine whatnots to drive traffic to the sight. (note: used a lot of mispelled words like "hoomer riter" to attract editors and agents who will be more likely unable to correct all my misspellings)
Dusted off a rip roaring TV sitcom script featuring yours truly and linked it to the blog, thus displaying the tremendous range of writing genres I have mastered.
Manned the phone to screen out all calls not from Oprah or agents or New Yorker Magazine. (note: completed 98 sudoku puzzles while manning phones to keep the mind sharp as a tack)
Honed my craft by writing a number of outrageous posts for my Fibomercials and Scams blog. (note: may need to obtain legal counsel for that Supple Drink fella, freeze budget until further notice)
Re-sorted all my query reject letters and read through them to get psyched.

Things to do in February:

Remember Valentines Day (2/23)
Continue to write thought provoking posts (note: will settle for just provoking if thought not there)
Continue to man the phones (note: obtain new sudoku book)
Submit (by 02/18) an entry to the "Funny Things about Cement" humor writing contest sponsored by Jimmy's Paving and Concrete Inc. over there in Cokesbury.
Hang out at the coffee bar at Borders and B&N and look all professional writerish (note: bring business cards this time)
Order tickets to The Daily Show and bring copies of my books for Jon Stewart to sign
Buy new underwear
Remember my birthday
Write a witty rebuttal to anything written by the two dimwits we have on our local paper editorial staff.
Keep the blog sparkling and add a widget that tells people their blood pressure.

"Want to add anything else Bob before I end this meeting? No? Okay then, its adjourned!"
"What's that Bob? "Its" needs an apostrophe? You're too late. The meeting is adjourned. Bring it up as outstanding business next month."

Well that went better than expected.

A Tribute to J. D. Salinger (1919-2010) as told by Holden Caulfield

2010-01-29T08:26:00.000-08:00

In tribute to J. D. Salinger, it only seems appropriate to tell my little story in the voice of Holden Caulfield, that tortured teen from The Catcher in the Rye.If you're listening JD, this is a true story you might just get a kick out of.

Anyway, take it away Holden.

******

That bigshot author, JD Salinger, is pretty dead now. The truth is I thought he was dead already because he's like a thousand years old. But he wasn’t. He is now though. So I started reading The Catcher in the Rye today.

There is a reason I'm doing this, and it's not just because he's some sort of famous writer who died. That's not my style at all. I have real style. Actually, it's quite a story anyway. You see, old JD’s death reminded me of sixth grade of all things.

I had this friend, well not really. His name was Clark Shangle. My understanding is that he is dead too. Alcohol. I never saw that coming back in sixth grade. I figured if anything he’d live to annoy people at least two hundred years if not a day.

When I say “well not really”, what I mean is that he was more like a pity friend. He actually had no real friends to speak of even though his dad was the only one in town in a wheelchair because of his dead legs, which was kind of cool to have for a dad in those days. Anyway, I sort of became his friend by default because I wasn’t mean enough to turn down his friendship advances. It was more like being volunteered because every one else in line took a step backwards. The truth is I felt sorry for Clark. But that didn’t stop me from being mean to him sometimes. Mean to a pity friend. Wow! That’s really pathetic. I was really pathetic.

One such day, old Clark invited himself over to the house after school. I wasn’t really in the mood at all. I had it in my mind to make uranium from my chemistry set that day. Clark was impossible to do important experiments with. He was a noodge if ever there was. Always with a hundred questions. Some people bite their fingernails. Other people move their legs up and down. I, at the time, pulled my eyelashes out. Clark asked questions. Really dumb questions too. “Why did ya do that?” was his favorite, when he had nothing else to ask. I hated that question. I really did. I hated it a lot.

The point is that I wasn’t in any sort of mood, especially when I was set to make uranium. In case you don’t know, it takes a certain amount of concentration and silence when working with radioactive isotopes, and he’d be, “What are you thinking Bobby Boy?” I hated being called “Bobby Boy” too. It was the exact sort of thing a noodge would come up with and think was terrific. It wasn’t terrific at all. It really wasn't. It was annoying.

So when Clark invited himself over, I pretended I didn’t hear him, which was my way of saying, “You can’t come over. I’m making uranium.” Well, he came over in spite of my obvious passive aggressive uninvite that any normal moron would get. But not good old Clark. So I hid in the garage while my brothers let him in the house to look for me. It was planned. They told him I was at church which he’d never follow me to. Not in a hundred years. Anyway, I guess he looked out a window or something and saw me in the garage pacing back and forth while plucking my eyelashes all over the goddam joint. He got the big picture. Not a proud moment for me.

I guess he left upset and told his mother. She called the house and chewed me out pretty good. But you see, that’s exactly the kind of thing that doesn’t make one popular for chrissakes. Having your mom call someone up and yell at them? Not good for friendship business. The short of it is that I apologized, even though I thought it was clear that he wasn’t invited over and that most of this could have been avoided if he wasn’t such a dumb douche bag. I also promised to come over to his house the next day to play and the week following. It was her idea though. Don't think it was mine. Not for a second think it was mine. Clark’s mother is a lot of things, most of which would be cruel to say right now, but she was one persuasive convincer. Clark didn't have a chance with her if that's what went on behind closed doors and all. It made me feel even sorrier for that sorry sap of a son of hers. Funny though. It didn't make me feel luckier than old Clark. It depressed me, if you want to know the truth.

The next day I showed up at the door and she greeted me, “Hello Robert. Come on in.” Now as much as I hated being called “Bobby Boy”, I hated “Robert” even more because it almost always meant I was about to be lectured or grounded or both. Since she couldn’t ground me—although coming over to play with Clark the next week was pretty much the same thing—I knew a lecture was imminent. She did not disappoint.

“Hello Mrs. Shangle.”

“Clark is changing and will be out shortly.” She paused a moment, then said, “Why don’t you take a seat in the living room.”

I walked into the living room and sat on the end of the couch. There was something about other people's houses I didn't care for much. Mostly the smell. It told me a lot about a joint. Sometimes nothing. Old Clark's house smelled like it had wheelchairs in it. And it did because of old man Shangle, which I mentioned earlier. Now Kedso's house for instance—he was another goddam sorry sap who lived up the street from me—always smelled like dog piss and pipe smoke. It was enough to make ya puke if you weren't prepared for it. Sometimes I wondered what my house smelled like to others. It had no smell to me. But I just know it had to smell to others. For one thing it had kids in it, and kids always make stink of one kind or another. Especially four boys for chrissakes. But I'm thinking for a while there it smelled like ducks since we had two ducks living underneath the porch. I wondered what ducks smelled like to others. I couldn't tell because they were our ducks and therefore our smell. You can't smell your own smell, which stinks when you think about it. It really does. There's no telling what others thought about it though—like what I thought about Kedso's house. But I was pretty sure ducks smelled good or better yet, exotic. Yeah, probably more like exotic. It's not every day you smell ducks near Newark New Jersey, where all this took place. Anyway, wheelchairs smelled metallic and cold. I could do without it. I really could truthfully.

Mrs. Shangle sat in a woman's chair facing me. It had fancy Irish lace arm rests, which makes is a woman's chair. Those kind of petite things would never last in my house. My mom could never have anything so fragile. Not when her four sons would take to jumping off the banister onto the couch and bounce every which way. I already took out three lamps by age 12. And my brothers were well on their way to break that record.

"Nice arm rests Mrs. Shangle. Are they imported from Ireland?" I asked. For a twelve year old, I had a lot of international information. I really did. Besides, I could create a distraction just about anywhere when trouble lurked.

“You know that was a terrible, hurtful thing you did yesterday.” She was one focused cookie that Mrs. Shangle. I have to give it to her. That poor Clark had no chance at all. That's depressing because kids should have a chance for chrissakes. Even phonies like stupid old Clark.

Unfortunately though what she was saying didn't really register. I mean I understand it now, dah, as an adult with a son of my own and all. But at the time I didn’t really get it. I was a dumb kid who was preoccupied with the smell of wheelchairs and sounding all international. Besides, he invited himself over like the real clueless lard ass he was. It wasn’t my fault at all. He wasn't expected, the turd head. Not when I'm experimenting with uranium for chrissakes.

“Yes, I know. It won’t happen again. I promise Mrs. Shangle.” Boy it killed me to say that, but what else could I do. I had told my mom about the whole affair over dinner, which she didn’t take as well as I thought she might. She made me promise to say such lies if the subject were to come up, which of course I knew would. Apparently, this whole episode reflected poorly on my mom (or so she yelled) and she wanted me to straighten this matter out like a man, which I wasn’t anywhere close to being at 12 years old. Unfortunately, that didn’t matter, that I wasn’t close to being a man that is. I seem to remember hearing that a lot during those uninformative years, as it was always at the heart of most of her complaints. It was a parental perspective that a kid, even one like me with my natural ability to play lecture dodge ball, couldn’t maneuver around. So I put my best fake serious face on and lied to Mrs. Shangle when I said what I said. I really did do just that. Lied.

Then old lady Shangle said something quite unusual.

“Robert, I want you to promise me that in a year or two you will read The Catcher in the Rye. It’s written by J.D. Salinger. It’s about an older boy named Holden Caulfield who you are going to be just like if you don't watch out. Hopefully you'll be able to do something about yourself before it's too late.”

“Oh, I don't know Mrs. Shangle if there's any helping me. But okay! I'll read it and give it a try. What’s that title again?” Of course I had no intention of doing such a thing. She sounded like a loon in a wig. I was pretty sure she was wearing a wig. Her hair was way to tall and stiff and big for someone with her dolled up prune mug. Anyway, me read a book? When there were Three Stooges and Little Rascal marathons on channel 11 all afternoon? Was she insane? What a dumb thing to ask a stupid kid of someone else's loins to do anyway. The goddam nerve. I was beginning to understand where Clark got his misguided gumption from.

“The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger.”

“Got it Mrs. Shangle. Thank you for the suggestion. Let's pray you got to me soon enough.” I could be so Eddie Haskle when the situation called for it.

Later at dinner, when I was grilled by mom about repairing her damaged parenting reputation, I mentioned Mrs. Shangle’s request and specifically her comparing me to this Holden guy.

It’s funny what can turn people sometimes. It really is funny.

“Oh is that so?” A sneer came over her face. I guess mom must have read the book. She read a lot of books. Mostly boring books as far as I could tell. Books with a lot of big words and bigger sentences. Oh, and no pictures too. Good books needed pictures. MAD Magazine was a good book if you really want to know the truth. Anyway, I guess this character, Holden Caulfield, was not a model teenager. I guess she'd taken great exception to Mrs. Shangle’s trespassing on mom's loin product, namely me.

“Did you hear that Bob?” she asked dad.

He stopped arranging his crumbs on the tablecloth in the shape of his initials. Well that's what he was always doing when he wasn't reading the Sports Section of the Newark Star Ledger and just thinking about his work day or other man thoughts. “Hear what?” he replied.

“Mrs. Shangle said Bobby reminded her of Holden Caulfield? Holden. Caulfield.” When mom called me Bobby it wasn't so bad for some reason. But boy did I hate it when others called me "Bobby", like I was still in diapers for God's sake. That would depress me to no end.

Dad shrugged his shoulders, “Who’s Holden Caulfield?” I don’t think I ever saw dad read anything thicker than the instructions to stuff or his beloved sports pages. But even so, I agreed with him about this Holden jerk. What's the big deal?

“Oh never mind! Now what’s this about you having to play with Clark all next week?” Hmm ... I could tell things were souring so I piled on.

“Mrs. Shangle made me promise to. She was so mean about it too ma. And I think she wears a wig!”

“A wig? Figures! Well, you tell Clark you can’t. Your mother has other plans for you. And if he has a problem with that, have his mother call me."

“Sure ma. But what other plans because Clark is gonna ask me for sure?” The fact is mom's other plans might just be a worse alternative. And if it included dusting, I'd move to Italy or some place further. I really would. Boy I hated dusting. What a waste of time. It always comes back. If it didn't come back so quickly I wouldn't mind so much. But it always came back right away. Spittin' in the wind is what dusting is. Anyway, I needed to get an answer before she had my buy in.

“You tell Clark, none of his beeswax!” I never understood that expression, “none of your beeswax”. No one ever wanted beeswax or owned beeswax as far as I knew. So it rang hollow to me that anyone would be that upset if they didn't have my beeswax even if I was such a loser enough as to have some in the first place. I guess it was instead of using the word “business” because saying “business” in this context was like cursing or something. So you had to say something else dumb like “beeswax”. Mom had a bunch of those peculiar expressions that never made much sense but gave you a particular drift about something.

“Okay. I’ll tell him. But between you and me ma, what other plans?”

“I have no other plans. I just don’t want you to be subjected to any more of Mrs. Shangle’s observations. One is quite enough.”

Whew!

“Sure thing ma. Thanks.”

“Holden Caulfield my fanny,” she sputtered under her breath but loud enough for me to hear. My fanny was another one of those beauts of mom’s. She was loaded with them, she was.

To mom's credit, her orders put an end to any hanging out with Clark for some time. That is until eighth grade when Clark found his father’s playboy stash, which struck me odd at the time with his being in a wheelchair and dead legs and all. I mean what else might be dead? It just goes to show ya though. You never can be sure of anything. I know it doesn't sound like it sometimes but I believe that. That you can't be sure of anything that is. Anyone who is sure is a big phony in my book. Most people strike me that way. It depresses me to tell ya the truth. Oh well. Anyway, better still, stupid idiot Clark was dumb enough to bring his dad's playboys into school. It's easy to overlook a lot of moron phoney stuff when someone is waving Miss September in front of eyes. I'm quite serious about that.

But that's getting off topic. Um ...

Yeah, so where was I? Oh, that’s right. J.D. Salinger died. So I remembered this story and started reading The Catcher in the Rye because I wanted to see what Mrs. Shangle was talking about. The funny thing is, from what I've read so far, I think I know why mom was so upset.

The goddam loin product trespassing truth can hurt sometimes. It really can.

Want to hear your success story

2010-01-27T07:44:00.000-08:00

I'm a glutton for punishment. It's what makes me so Bob. It goes hand-in-hand with my credo: "If it's good news, it must be someone else's". And since the good news is always someone else's, I like to punish myself occasionally by listening to the fortunes of others, thus, the hand-in-hand connection. I suppose there is always the chance I actually might learn something to boot. So I'm asking people to share with me how they achieved any amount of success in the writing for pay business. Bloggers, Novelists, Copywriters, writers of all fonts and sizes! I want to hear from you. Tell me your story! Give me some motivation, some hope, some promise that there is gold, as over-valued as it might be right now, at the end of the writin' rainbow. (I sure do have a flair for the mundane dramatics don't I?)

Okay, the reality is that of the handful of visitors who might actually read this plea, most are here from a wayward Google search. They are long gone by now. The remaining one is most likely my mom, who checks in from time to time to see if an intervention is required.

So the long and the short of it is I don't expect any exhilirating success stories anytime soon. But it doesn't hurt to try. There's always the off chance Maureen Dowd might stop by! It's no secret that she's been known to do that from time to time. Well, actually it is a secret. because I certainly don't know about it.

Anyway, share your lessons learned with me. Please. And oh yeah, I'm really interested in any query letters that may have landed a follow-up, especially of the unsolicited kind. I'm always curious about that opening sentence. The hook.

In advance, thanks!

Personality traits of a writer

2010-01-25T09:04:00.000-08:00

I recently stumbled upon a post in a writer's blog about the personality traits of successful writers and was struck by just how many I shared with them. For instance, perseverance. And let me tell you, I'm loaded with it. Why, it oozes from my ears. It spurts out from under my finger nails every time I press a keyboard.

Let's face it, if rejection is something one cherishes as much as I, trying to become published is about as lucrative an endeavor as one can undertake. It takes perseverance to accumulate a desk drawer full of query rejection letters. I should know. I have a pile of them. They're beautiful. From the simple "no thank you" or "not at this moment", to the tear stained confessions and the harsh "not if my child's life depended on it". I have even sorted them in harshest to kindest order, occasionally reading through them, only to come away feeling I'm on the upswing.

Ah, rejection! It is something I embrace. So much so that I even created quite a stir in dating circles with my patented, "The Brilliant Rejection Dating Maneuver". It's a beautiful thing.

The Flying Squirrelendas and writing distractions

2010-01-23T07:30:00.000-08:00

To be of sound writing mind, one must find a space where there are few distractions. At least that is what I have come to believe. It's with this in mind that I tell this story. You see, my writing space is tucked away in a small vestibule of a corner, spare bedroom that sits just below the attic in the old part of the house (circa 1770 old). The attic for—well let's see now, I did this post about them in Cranelegs Pond in July of 2008, ah—for over a year and half now has been the residence of the Flying Squirrelendas. They're a rather high strung bunch of acrobatic winged rodents who apparently do their high branch act to sold out forest venues across western Jersey. I'm assuming they have quite the following, as their attic suite is littered by droppings and debris from rehearsal parties and fouled from the naughty emissions of some unseemly aftershow, all-night orgies.

To put it mildly, their shenanigans have been a constant source of distraction to my frail concentration. This might even explain the so-so quality of my posts the past year. Aware of such, I have been in the process of trapping them for some time. I am here to tell you I've just caught the second one no more than three hours ago (the first just two days ago). After many cunning concoctions, I finally figured out the secret Havaheart trap bait. Peanut butter and celery! It's killer (well not in the literal sense).

Hopefully I've captured and relocated all of them because if there are more Flying Squirrelendas left, this could turn real nasty pretty darned soon. Two have been more than enough. Why, I even resorted to some pretty enhanced interrogation techniques (documentation below) to verify he was the last one, but what a tough nut to crack.

I got nothing except a lot of squirrel lip. This particular tough guy told me, "Hey Shakespeare! Put a comma after 'more'! And you call yourself a writer." To which I responded, "Hey watch it buster! Need I remind you who's the one holding the gun!" To which he replied, "A Flying Squirrelenda knows no fear. I laugh in your general direction! Pull the trigger you pasty, panty-waist lummox! I dare ya!" After a lot of nasty back and forth, we agreed to his unharmed release just across the street as long as he remained cuffed and blindfolded during the transfer.

The point to all this is that now I can concentrate. Finally! And like any good writer worth his or her salt, focus is paramount. No more hootenannies. No more John Denver sing-alongs. No more rodent orgies. No more night noise. Only stillness now. Only concentration. And I have to say, given the crispness of this little gem of a post, I'm liking what I see!

At least that is what I'm betting on. I guess delusion is still playing a large role in all of this.

The Tip

2010-01-22T11:25:00.000-08:00

On the off chance Larry David is having a bad couple of creative months and needs to meet a deadline for a Curb Your Enthusiasm script and is using a Google/Yahoo search to, you know, see what's available, and he happens to find this blog, I want to be ready.

What? It could happen.

So I've written a script starring me as Bob. It's called The Tip and anyone who knows me, knows this sort of thing could happen. Anyway, it's all yours Larry David for the discounted price of $4.95 (m.s.r.p. is $127,886 plus free Smuttynose IPA at script readings). Also Larry, you can be Bob if you'd like.

This is what I call being proactively delusional.

What is the perfect writing job?

2010-01-22T08:30:00.000-08:00

I suppose if I want a career as a writer, I need to ask some of the tough questions like: how much capital do I need (as in capital letters, I'm a true conservative as demonstrated in my blog Cranelegs Pond)? Or how much sick leave should I demand? I guess a better question might be: what would I want to write about?

Hmm ... that's a good one. If I could pick and choose, writing copy for the Sexy Time Toys catalogue excites me (so to speak), but how many times can I use the word pleasure (especially "for her") before I'm sick of the whole thing. Besides, some of the so called toys look like they might be manufactured by the Happy House of Uday Hussein, who nothin' for nothin' was a nogoodnik whose reputation remains sullied even in his current state of rest.

But the idea of writing copy is resonating. Especially for ads.

"Hey goat hold it!"

What about for fibomercials? Holy cow! I know a lot about them because I've only become like the most prolific consumerist humorist on the internet (visit Fibomercials and Scams if you don't believe me). I mean I don't want to toot my own horn, but I know an effective fibomercial when I watch one. I suppose it would be a conflict of interest, but if conflict pays, I'm game. Oh man, just let me at those terms of agreement! The suckers won't know what hit 'em.

An infomercial copywriter! Now that's the shizzlenit right there (yiddish gangsta speak for "the goods")! Why there's even a slight puddle of drool collecting right there between the B, N and Space Bar on my keyboard. Now that's a sign! This is it!

Oh course I'm going to have to use some pretty tricky word-smithing to get in good favor with the likes of Kevin "the Sultan of Scam" Trudeau, Dazzling Donny Boy Barrett, and Dean "The Foreclosure Machine" Graziosi if I expect any chance of getting hired. That might be a bit risky. Um ... maybe I should set my sights lower. Like real low! Like the down lowzelstein (more yiddish gangsta talk).

I know, the ShamWow/Slap Chop fella is a good low start. In fact, here's a little copy that just came to me.

"Why use expensive knives that can chop off your arms (demonstrate), when you can use the amazing Slap Chop! So simple, you can use your feet (demonstrate) ... teat ... meat ... tweet ... sweet! Order now for $19.95. But wait! Order in the next two years and get two for one and a third for six, plus we'll sign you up for our monthly Slap Happy Chop Loppy newsletter filled with mouthwatering recipes and tips for your Slap Chop (just a small lifetime membership fee of $11.17 a month)! There's more! We'll even through in the amazing super absorbent ShamWow shammy towel mammy! It can absorb up to four quarts of blood (demonstrate by having stage hand apply to blood gushing from missing arms). So order today! Order now!"

Yeah, it just kind of flowed out of me. What can I say? I was born for this!

About Julie Powell's "Cleaving" (marriage, meat, and obsession)

2010-01-19T07:53:00.000-08:00

Just finished "Cleaving" by Julie Powell, the author of "Julie and Julia". She is a talented writer who has captured a unique voice, one I might add that bubbles with a style of humor I find endearing. She is in part the inspiration for this blog. It is with that in mind that I feel compelled to write this post about her most recent book.

So let's see, "Cleaving" ...

One of my favorite films is Nightshift. I believe it might be Ron Howard's first as Director. If you haven't seen it, it's worth the rental. Anyway, Bill Blazejowski (a.k.a. "The Blaze") played by Michael Keaton, arrives on the first day of his job, assistant to the nightshift city morgue manager. He's a "wild man" with big ideas masking the soul of a loser, the antichrist to his new boss Chuck Lumley (Henry Winkler), a mysophobic, pencil pushing bureaucrat straight-jacketing the soul of a winner. It's the stuff from which the funny is endless.

The Blaze makes his entrance into Chuck's office, mimicking the signature guitar riff from Jumping Jack Flash. He plants himself down uninvited into a chair in front of Chuck's desk, slapping his sneakered feet atop, moving his legs with nervous energy, smacking gum. Chuck continues to sharpen a line up of pencils into equal lengths.

After brief introductions, The Blaze sees a framed picture, grabs it and studies it.

"Hey Chuck? Is like a picture of your wife or something?"
Chuck responds in monotonic irritation, "That's Charlotte. She's my fiancee."
The Blaze studies it some more, places it back and mumbles, "Nice frame."

That is "Cleaving".

While it's not for me to say, I'll at least ask it, "What was that all about?" It was painful to read. If you must know more, it was Jerry Springer meets Food Channels's Alton Brown meets Travel Channel's Anthony Bourdain. And it didn't work. Not for me anyway. When I wasn't bored by the endless descriptions of breaking down animal muscles or the telling of foreign travel and food intrigue, I was a voyeur, peering into the torso of broken people filled with emotional and relationship cancer, dismembered before my eyes.

I'm not sure of the point, other than Julie using her craft to write herself through her post success turmoil, which I'm hopeful she has. I just wish she hadn't brought me along for the ride. It also goes to show that even great writers can screw it up from time to time. In a strange Bob sort of way, it gives me perserverance. Maybe I'm the odd bad writer who might get one right one day.

Well, the truth is Julie remains a gifted writer. Her voice remains strong. She's going to do just fine. My understanding is that she is planning to venture into fiction. I look forward to that. Can't wait frankly.

But until then, the Blaze in me says, "Nice book jacket!"

This is exactly what I mean ...

2010-01-16T07:06:00.000-08:00

I wake up thinking this is the day and then I read something like this. "John 'Junior' Gotti finds new calling - writing true crime stories". And you know he is going to get a book deal. You just know it. Probably the one earmarked for me. I mean, I understand. I get it. He invented the "offer you can't refuse" (although it was another one of my original ideas without the follow through). Who's going to turn him down? To tell ya the truth, I'm feeling a little on edge even writing about this.

But I have to get this off my concaved chest because I just can't take it no more. The truth is, this is a true crime. I mean look at the two of us? Who looks like the writer I ask you? Junior (left) or me (right: that's a stand-in for anonymity purposes but he's a fair likeness) ?

Let's be honest, you can't tell me he's been honing his dangling participle skills while avoiding prison. And what editor is going to tell him "yous" is not the plural of "you". To his credit at least he won't have a problem with run-on sentences—hardee har har!

What a freakin' nightmare in the morning.

Oh, what do I know anyway? Maybe he can write true crime stories. Certainly has the pedigree, although I suspect they'll be very short crimes, using very small words with very large pictures. It wouldn't surprise me at all if he hires the other junior, Dubya, to be his ghost writer. A couple of Juniors with the vocabulary of Rocky Balboa and cowboy Bucky Barnsworth between the two of them. Holy crap! Can you believe this?

I better stop now—you know, while I still have all my phalanges (betting he doesn't know that word, thus, no bright ideas). The last thing I need is a situation with Junior. Nothin' for nothin, the Pond Posse isn't all it's cracked up to be in the toughness department. Gang names like ItsmeCissy and Lightly couldn't strike fear in a chess club, let alone the likes of Mr. Gotti. And I would know. I was captain of the chess club cheerleaders at my high school. They're not a rough and tumble lot.

Oh well, it's back to the drawing board for me. Maybe Junior would like a nice business blog for his writing career. That I can do!

a novel idea: blog for businesses

2010-01-15T08:31:00.000-08:00

The best part of this internet is that if you write a blog long enough and mind your posts and comment queues, you just might come away with a posse. I have. And what a pack of whack-a-doos it is (I wouldn't have it any other way). Itsmecissy, Lightly and Pam. San Jose, North Vancouver, Rochester. What a crew!

There are others but they tend to operate incognito, only coming out to comment when they can bear my nonsense no longer. Good, law abidin' people with decent jobs and Sunday social lives and wanting to keep it that way. But they are all a part of the Pond Posse. We even have colors like the Crips, Bloods and Latin Kings. The Pond Posse goes by lemon drop yellow with a splash of burnt sienna (men optionally wear gray).

Probably too much information.

So where was I? Oh yeah. The reason I bring this up at all is the support and help I've been getting from this gang. They're different from family. They don't have to say they like my material. But they seem to anyway. Of course, they must be deeply troubled, but beggars can't be choosey; besides, I'm proud to call them friends, albeit of the virtual sort.

Anyway, Pam, one of the more vocal, has suggested a number of ways to get my writing career off the ground in a professional way. Most recently, she recommended that I set up blogs for businesses. Like for nail salons and laundramats and what not.

I can do that!

A little of this and a little of that. A post about cuticle health. A post about underwear cleanage. Wait a minute! Hey goat hold it! I know! A "name that nail color" contest. Or better yet! A special weekly laundry editorial column in which the owner takes on the tough stain issues of the day. Yes! I'll call it ... hmm ... I'll call it ... "The No Spin Cycle"! Oh baby!

I can do this I'm telling ya!

I'm full of ideas, besides I've been a business analyst for like a billion years already. I know how to talk to business people and get down to the essentials of their work.

Yes! Yes I can!

Wow! This is great!

****************************************

Okay. I always get to this point and then ... nothing. I'm an idea man without the follow through. I can't tell ya how many things I had ideas for that others invented. You know the "two for one sale"? Yeah, that was mine! The whole idea of coffee houses and five dollar servings? My high school friend Baby Dumpling and me, 1973. You watch! This "blogging for businesses" is going to take off. Probably with Pam at the helm.

I'm certain this inability to go from idea to action plan is the core competency of my life's credo, "If it's good news, it must be someone else's".

I think I'll go make a cup of joe while I await emails for my blogging services from Leon's Family Lanes and Just Knobs over on Route 22.

a semicolonoscopy

2010-01-12T05:48:00.000-08:00

I'm hauling Keaton, my significantly other better half, off to have her colon oscopied. During her preparation, I was reminded of my own semicolonoscopy I self administered a few years ago.

Prior to my self exam, I applied semicolons like Cheney sprays birdshot. As a writer, one really should know when to reach for the semicolon, but let's face it, the semicolon is a rather muddled affair from the get go. After all, it's not quite a full colon. It's only semi. Well frankly, that's a lot of gray area for me. So my rule was if I didn't know whether to use a comma or a period, simply use both, making the semicolon a regular staple of my early writing arsenal. Then I started actually reading the stuff I was writing and realized my sentences were becoming as convoluted as some of Sarah Palin's policy statements. So I executed my first semicolonoscopy, removing the insidious punctuation polyps wherever they appeared, replacing them with simple periods along the way.

Personally, the sooner the semicolon atrophies the better off writers will be. Until such time though, I'll continue to perform the procedure.

I told Keaton this story an hour ago; it didn't seem to do much good. She's still in the bathroom making noises I have not heard since the dog ate a bottle of Ex-Lax.

Humor writer's need a theme song!

2010-01-09T07:43:00.000-08:00

Good humor writers have theme songs. David, Seinfeld, Palin. They all do. So what better theme song than to unretire Jean Shepherd's. I grew up listening to Jean every night on WOR. He was the best storyteller I've ever heard. So what better way to thank him than to borrow his theme. Well, probably not borrowing his theme might be a better way. So I guess this is the second best way.

I get a little rambunctious about my theme song!

I need compelsion!

2010-01-08T12:10:00.000-08:00

If I want to gain an audience, the first thing I need to do is have a compelling story. In short, I need compelsion. At least that's what all the experts agree is necessary. And strong characters are the foundation to a compelling story.

I'm a character. I hear that all the time. "Oh, you're quite a character, Bob, you are." But I just don't get the sense that I'm a strong character. I am compelling though. Okay, maybe I exaggerate. I'm pelling. I'm swelling. I'm welling. I'm willing. Yes! I'm willing. That's it. I'm willing. I'm willing to be compelling.

Good. This is going better than I thought. "Willing to be compelling!" Like it. I feel like I'm on a bit of a writer's roll here. Better quit while I'm ahead. Besides, this is just mentally draining. Whew! I'm exhausted to tell you the truth.

Will run with it after a good night's rest.

A day of closure and sundries

2010-01-07T10:57:00.000-08:00

Today is a day of closure. I have a blog that's been in operation for over two years now, and I just entered my final post today, number 999. An achieved milestone of sorts. The blog is actually the source of one of the books I want to publish in this little 2010 scheme of mine.

Anyway, it's been a diversion and now that it is retired, I should be able to focus on this. But it's sad in a way. Feel like I'm shutting something down that has been a big part of my writing. And I'm leaving some good friends behind possibly. Hope not. A lot of mixed feelings about it, but I have to get this moving along. Julie was on her fifth recipe by now. I'm bouncing around like Richard Simmons at a Barbie doll convention. I gotta get focus sure as shootin'.

Speaking of Julie Powell, this second book of hers, Cleaving, is nothin' for nothin'—out there. What a mess! And I'm not talking about the butcher's table she so aptly describes down to the bloody pork tissue basics. It's her post published high jinks. It's enough to make me wonder if this is a worthy endeavor I'm pursuing.

I should know soon enough as I am plowing through her memoir under the guarded delusion that she sorts her shit out. Or I don't know what I'll do.

In the meantime, head down and focus.

Up to some old tricks to get things moving ...

2010-01-06T08:57:00.000-08:00

Now that i have this flashy blog, it's time to bring in a little traffic. Okay, I've tapped into a cheap way to get traffic. Build a StumbleUpon account (Digg, del.icio.us, etc., there all pretty much the same) and then recommend the blog (or post). All you have to do is sit back and watch the traffic, albeit uninterested eyeballs but page hits nonetheless. Based on my stats from Statcounter (the traffic monitor of choice), over 90 folks visited in a brief half hour burst with a whopping 35% staying more than five seconds. Not a bad start for the first day. Of course the traffic has been colder than Tiger's 1 iron since, but what the hey, it's a start.

And when those Google searchbots get a hold of my meta-keywords, it's going to be holy smokes time around these parts.

In the meantime, I'm going to register the blog on Blog Catalog, another social network for bloggers worth a look at. Unfortunately, I suspect agents and publishers don't spend a lot of time in these joints. They're a little too highbrow for the likes of some of the dregs these websites attract. Just read some of the discussion threads and you'll quickly come to the same conclusion.

So where do they hang out? I know. Build a little Google search and find out. Let's see, "where do literary agents hang out these days?". Hit search and WHOALAH! 50,000+ results. Skim through and BINGO! Here's a promising site: Guide to Literary Agents by Chuck Sambuchino.

Hmm ... I don't know about this. Looks more like a buy-his-book website. He does have a blog though. I'm going to check it out. Uh oh. That picture. He is wearing a black shirt and tie. I don't know anyone who wears a black shirt and tie, let alone feels free to broadcast it. Big smile too. Makes me nervous. I'll pass on this.

The truth is, I've been down this road before. It takes work to find agents, especially agents that have interest in your particular niche (or "genre", as they like to refer to it as—so french). And then there is the whole one page query letter. And after all that, there is the sad but brutally honest truth that to get representation you need to be published or have name recognition, like "Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab" for instance. And since I have neither, this is a terribly unfruitful path to take. I've written about this and a few other pitfalls in excruciatingly humorous detail in Eight Lessons for Unpublished Writers.

Take a moment to read it. If anything, it will set you up for what I'm up against in this journey to get published.

Meanwhile, I have some social networking fish to fry.