Writing in General, My Novel in Specific (Entropy - a novel about falling apart)

Photo op

2008-06-24T20:13:00.001-07:00

I had photos taken by Sarah Gwidt Photography for use in publicity materials to go with my book (I'll be doing some signings and readings soon). It's the first time since forever that I've actually had real photos taken. Anyway, here's one pic of me, and you can see some more at the photographer's website.

Great job making my mug look good - thanks Sarah!

More reviews...

2008-06-23T08:31:00.000-07:00

I would like to thank Cheryl at Cheryl's Book Nookand Michele - only one l for being kind enough to review Entropy on their blogs.

Cheryl did enjoy the book, but I’m sorry to say Michele didn’t love it, which makes me even more appreciative of her taking the time to read and review the book – it takes self-discipline I don’t have to keep reading something you clearly don’t like. She also posted a mini interview with me, so you should check it out.

I have to admit, it was a strange feeling getting a negative review. It kind of felt like being dumped, or maybe more accurately, like going on a blind date and finding the person really hated you. I feel like I want another chance at a first impression (read my short stories Michele! Give me another chance!). I guess this feeling comes from the same place that defensive feeling I get when people joke about the novel comes from (I wrote about that in this post).

An interesting thing about the review is that it mentioned things I had been self-conscious about with the book – namely the sex, and to a lesser extent the drug use. My short stories generally have little or none of either. So it was a bit different for me writing scenes like that. As most writers know, once you start writing, the characters take away the book, and this is what happened with Entropy. I do feel like the sex and drugs are not gratuitous. In writing Entropy, I had to put out of my mind my own inner censor. I felt I was a chronicler of the characters and couldn’t impose myself on them. The only thing that really hurt was when Michele said she felt the book was pointless – I obviously don’t think this is the case, and I wonder how I could miss the mark so badly with this reader. Perhaps another good lesson for me is that some people will not see in the book what I think is there to be seen. Books are such a one on one thing - when I was doing standup, if most people laughed, I was doing great - the ones who didn't like it were drowned out. Not so with novels, that's for sure.

Anyway, thanks again to both of them.

Something Old, Something New

2008-06-10T09:10:00.000-07:00

Well, it’s official. I’ve broken ground on a new novel. I won’t discuss the book in detail, because as Hemingway said (to paraphrase), if you put your mouth all over something then you ruin it.

I will say this; I’ve had a bit of a dilemma. I started this new novel, but then, Nick, from my novel Entropy, started intruding on my thoughts. I started to see what was happening to him and found myself wanting to write that book. I wanted to see what was going to happen to him.

I held back though. For me, a story or novel will spend much of its time rattling around in my head. Writing itself, I guess. It changes a lot after it comes out of my head, but the basic work is done in my mind. I turn over ideas. Work out situations. It’s very much like writing without the physical output.

Which comes in handy when I haven’t written in a long time – I can say I was writing in my head the whole time!

It's all personal, in a public way...

2008-06-02T07:46:00.000-07:00

Scene from a bar:
I am sitting at a bar enjoying drinks with friends, coworkers from my real job -- not writing co-workers. The subject of my book comes up and there is a little good-natured ribbing about the somewhat steamy scenes it contains. I go along, but then the joking moves on to other topics regarding the book. I feel my face getting hot and I grow silent. After a couple more comments (none mean-spirited mind you) I say very calmly it’s time to change the subject. There is literal awkward silence until someone gives a drawn out “Okay.” Luckily everyone moves on and the subject is forgotten.

Retrospect:
But the next day, one of my friends asked why I was bothered by the jokes. How does a writer explain this to a non-writer? An artist to a non-artist? I tried to make clear that the book, although fiction, contains a lot of me, of my thoughts and ideas, and that it was very personal feeling to have it talked about. Oxymoronic, I know, since how can a publicly published novel be personal and private? But it is. Writers know this; whether one writes books, articles, or blogs, fiction or non-fiction, writers are attached to their work in a way other artists are not. Writing is putting yourself out there for everyone – opening the blinds so everyone can see. No doubt that is why criticism can be so hard to hear.

And it makes even good-natured joking impossible.

A Book of Few Words

2008-05-27T06:28:00.000-07:00

On NPR I heard a story about how they challenged listeners to come up with a 12 word novel. Sounded fun, so I thought I'd give it a try. It so much harder than I thought it'd be....

My 12 word Novel
Finally the bottom. No lower, he hoped, and sipped at his whiskey.

The Imaginary Last Moments of Egon Friedell

2008-05-23T09:21:00.000-07:00

Friedell was a Jewish intellectual in Austria who committed suicide rather than be taken by the Nazis (see this post). As the title suggests, it is fiction based on the historical event.

He saw them from his bedroom window. It was a third story window that allowed him to see the bustle of the street. He still liked to stand at the window, push the curtain slightly to the side with his hand that held a cup of coffee or tea (both becoming more scarce during the occupation) and watch the ongoing life in the city. It seemed normal still. It didn’t seem like the normal life of the city was gone, sucked away, replaced with a false normalcy that the people accepted either because they had to or because they wanted to.

He used to love watching the activity. Men standing at the door of this or that café, saying their greetings and goodbyes in the same breath, promising to meet later, perhaps one pushing a rough draft of a current manuscript into the hands of the other as they hurriedly passed on their way to somewhere. Children crossing the street incautiously as they laughed with each other or ignored the shouts of their mothers or au pairs.

This was before the Anschluss. Now the streets were filled with clicking boots of men -- men whose heels clicked to the rhythm of death. Groups of boy soldiers flexed their sudden power by beating Jews as they wished. Sometimes communists got beaten. Sometimes being an intellectual got you beaten. Just being one of the “them,” whichever of the myriad definitions of “them” the clicking boots chose to use at that moment, put your life at risk.

It was thoughts of laughing children and rough written poetry that were in his head when he spotted the Gestapo walking so importantly down the streets and to the entrance of his apartment building. He’d been expecting them of course. He’d long since given up the idea they would not come for him, given up this idea about the same time it occurred to him and many others that they had squandered, through their self-delusional denial of reality, any chance to escape the city, the country. To escape the click booted death.

How different the Gestapo was from the regular soldiers. If the regular soldiers were purposely ignorant of events, the Gestapo was purposely proud of their role in them. He watched them disappear into the doorway. He thought he could hear their boots on the steps leading to his door.

Suddenly the loud knock. The knock that says we do not have to knock, you know that and we know that, but it is understood we will observe this convention so as not to make it seem like we are here to take a man to his death, although that is precisely why we are here. So stupid he thought. Their brazenness. If the Nazis had been just a little subtle they might have taken the entire world without a shot. As it was, their fits and starts of subtly had accomplished a lot.

He heard the housekeeper arguing with the men who were there to lead him to his death. A horrible death? he wondered. Who could say? There were stories, hard to believe stories of such despair. He imagined a quick shot to the head would be their choice. Efficient and easy.

As he heard the argument coming to an end, he began to do what he had prepared himself to do. He had imagined it just this way. Funny how it was playing out in exactly the manner he had envisioned. Well, that was one for his side.

He sipped that last bit of his luke warm, weak coffee and set the cup down. Pulling the curtains aside with an unintended dramatic flourish, he pushed open both sides of the window and stood on the sill. He looked over the edge, looked at the sidewalk below. A couple, intellectuals he had gotten to know well in the last few years were walking towards where he would land – perhaps even now on their way to visit him. He wanted to wait until they passed before he jumped.

The talking in the other room ceased, and the clicking heels came to claim him. Hurry he thought, tried to send this message to his friends, hurry and get by me. As he thought this they looked up and noticed him, looked up bewildered and slowed their pace. The door to his room began to slowly open.

He had to do it now.

“Watch out,” he yelled, and at the same time launched himself through the window. Watch out, he thought, not just for me, but for all that he knew was to happen. Watch out.

He continued sounding his warning until the ground cut it short.

Clive James and Egon Friedell

2008-05-23T06:27:00.000-07:00

Ever since I heard an interview with Clive James in which he discussed Egon Friedell I’ve been thinking about the story of Friedell’s death. Friedell was a Jewish writer in Nazi controlled Austria, and as James told the story, when the Gestapo was on its way to arrest Friedell, he threw himself out of his apartment window and fell to his death. The part that amazes me, according to James’ account, is that as Friedell flung himself out the window, he shouted a warning to passersby so that they might not be injured by his falling body.

And yet, I wonder, was he warning of something else? Friedell studied culture and civilization. Was his warning more that just a “look out below” to those on the ground? Was it more?

This is what I wonder.

Review

2008-05-21T05:30:00.000-07:00

The writer of an excellent book blog, Booking Mama, has posted a review of my novel. I am so very appreciative of her time and effort, so please go to her site and take a look at not just the review, but also at the rest of her site. It's a great place for reviews, book club info, and so much more!

Short Story -- Waiting for Maria

2008-05-13T05:39:00.001-07:00

This is one of my favorite stories...I've posted it before at the ReadMe blog, but wanted to repost here.

Waiting for Maria
By Anthony Lawrence Gordon

Maria is late. She works at the Gap in the mall, and was supposed to get out a half an hour ago. I am near the mall exit waiting for her. Arms folded, I lean against the black, imitation granite pillar. It is cold. The chill jumps through my T-shirt and lands on my spine. Above me the neon lights hum. There is one down the hall that flickers and strobes -- going out for a minute then coming back on.
I watch the people, bleached out by the merciless, mean lights -- I hate those lights -- and I move my feet. I notice a spilled Coke on the floor. The ice cubes sparkle and twinkle. And melt. They’ll be gone soon -- they’ll be little puddles. I kick one of the cubes, and I wait for Maria.

So I am standing against the pillar, hating those lights, and a bleached-face woman is walking out of the store across from me. Well, she doesn’t really walk, she hobbles. She hobbles because she is on crutches. The padding on the hand grips is taped, and the tops are wedged under her armpits. She has black, wavy hair that stops at her shoulders. Her profile is sharp, but pretty. I notice her breasts (they are nice but unremarkable), and I follow the line down to her legs. The uninjured one is nicely shaped and proportioned. The thigh is muscular and sculpted, as is her calf. Her other leg is nice too, but it is bandaged from the knee down. And her foot is gone -- amputated. Gauze covers the stump where her ankle should start.
So I an standing, arms still crossed, cold still climbing my spine. I try not to stare at this woman. I look at my shoes, clear my throat. I cross and uncross my arms. Put my hands in my pockets. I try to occupy my eyes, but my gaze keeps resting on this woman, or more correctly, her stump. For a moment I think I see a blood stain on her bandage, but I realize it is just a shadow. Probably.
The woman’s back is to me; she is looking in the store window. In my mind flashes the face of Jerry. Jerry is a friend of mine who used to be a big, likeable jock. He used to be, until he was paralyzed playing football. He’s small and fragile now, and in a wheelchair. When I think of Jerry, I think of the time I had to help him drain his catheter bag. I think of how I had to hold the bottle because his hands were too weak. I think of how warm the fluid felt as it filled the bottle, and how I was afraid the urine might spill. And that smell. That’s what I think of when I think of Jerry, or when I see him. And now when I see him, which isn’t often, I don’t look into his eyes.
Anyway, this woman is across from me looking in the store window. I see her turn slightly in my direction. She twists her crutches around and her body follows. Her eyes, which have dark circles under them, catch mine. I look away. She turns around totally, and starts to hobble to the exit. Her footless leg swings rhythmically, like some kind of strange pendulum.
She hobbles along and comes even with me. She looks at me, not at where she is going. I squirm, I think about Jerry and his urine bottle. This woman, this woman with the wrapped stump that may have blood on it, continues to look at me as she hobbles. Suddenly, her crutch slips out. It probably slipped on the spilled drink I have forgotten about. Anyway, she falls. She falls hard; I hear the breath grunt out of her.
“Are you okay?” I ask. I am kneeling next to her.
She sits. For a moment I worry she’ll get her pants stained by the spilled Coke.
“Yes,” she says. “I think so.”
She rubs her shoulder, brushes her black hair from her face. I retrieve her crutches and help her to her feet.
“I guess you slipped in that Coke,” I say, pointing.
“I guess.”
“Look, are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes,” she says. She brushes her pant leg and says, “I saw you looking at me. I saw your reflection in the window.”
What can I say? I want to say “You’re still pretty.” I want to say “You’re beautiful.” I want to hug her like a baby and protect her. I want to give her her foot back. But I can’t say or do any of these things.
“I’m sorry,” I say. I can think of only that.
She looks at me. She looks at me while those neon lights bleach out her face. Mine too, I guess.
“I know,” she says. “I’m sorry too.”
She makes her way towards the door, steady now on her crutches. I’m motionless, watching her. I feel a tap on my shoulder. It’s Maria.
“Sorry I’m late,” she says.
“It’s okay,” I say.
We walk outside into the parking lot. The bright sun makes me squint until my eyes finally adjust.
Maria says, “Look, look honey.” She is pointing by moving her head, jerking it. “That woman came into the store today.” She is talking about the woman who just fell. The woman without the foot.
“I saw her too,” I say.
“It’s sad, you know? She’s so pretty otherwise. It’s sad, but it’s kind of gross too. I thought I saw blood on her bandage.”
As I talk, I watch the woman go down the sidewalk. Her hair glistens in the sunlight, like pieces of those ice cubes from the floor are caught in the strands. Her face, what I can see of it anyway, looks healthy in the natural light. I watch her, and in my mind I see Jerry, only it’s the Jerry who could pee by himself.
“Come on,” says Maria. “let’s go home.”
She grabs my hand and pulls me along.
So I go along, stumble behind her. I squeeze her hand and feel her strength in response. I crave her warmness, and I go along. I go along because I don’t know what else to do. And if I did, I probably wouldn’t do it anyway.

THE END

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The writer returns...

2008-05-01T09:38:00.000-07:00

The writing of my novel “Entropy” is kind of a winding road. I have written since I can remember. I can remember in elementary school writing a story that ended with the character emerging from a fog bank and everything returning to the way it started – an unintentional Dues ex machina. In the early 90s. after having gotten out the Marine Corps and begun college, I wrote very seriously. I wrote many stories and began to have some publishing success.

Then I changed my major to education. My purpose was to teach while I wrote. While finishing college and beginning a family, a wrote a very rough draft of what was to become the novel “Entropy.” Then a funny thing happened; I found I really loved teaching. I threw myself into it, and the demands of teaching and family made it easy for me to let the writing slide. I outwardly stopped defining myself as a writer supporting myself by teaching, and rather became a teacher who used to write.

Funny thing though, inwardly I always defined myself as a writer. And a teacher. And a father. Although I was barely writing, my identity as a writer was still strong.

Slowly the writer began to bubble up again. Could be because I’ve been teaching for a while and that’s why the writer came back. I like to think maybe it was that the writer had been working on his own and was ready to show his work.

So I went back to the novel that had been sitting for almost ten years. When I read it through, I found I liked it. It had been so long since I read it that it was like reading someone else’s writing. This worked out quite well as I could immediately see flaws I might otherwise have not seen if I was too close to the work. If only this were technique I could use more than once every ten years.

The writer in me was ready for the revision process. I wrote new scenes, deleted clumsy ones, “killed my babies.”

And the result, I think, is a well-written and tightly-written novel. I learned a lot from this process. I was shocked at how the themes I was addressing remained themes of interest for me. I was happily surprised to see I enjoyed my own writing.

I hope you will too.

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Short Story -- The Shape of You, The Shape of Me

2008-04-29T12:00:00.000-07:00

The Shape of You, The Shape of Me
By Anthony Lawrence Gordon

The fight was over, but the talking was still left. James was stretched out across the floor at the foot of the bed, his wife Wendy was on the bed sitting crossed legged. He stared straight up at the ceiling fan as Wendy spoke.
"I just can't live like this anymore. I can't take your anger," she said.
Across the hall, Billy cried in his crib. He didn’t want to sleep, or maybe he just didn’t want to be left alone. He'd stop crying for a while, and you would think he was asleep, then the crying would start again.
James said, "Just let me get him up. He's not going to take a nap."
"He has to learn to go to sleep on his own. He hasn’t been in there that long."
"Christ."

Wendy slid over, dangled her feet over the side of the bed so that the tip of her toes just pressed against the carpet.
She said, "Something has to change. I can't fight anymore. Not like this. Ever since the baby came, you've been so mean. This isn’t you."

James rolled onto his side. Maybe if his back were to her she would stop. Maybe if he kept staring away, staring off somewhere at something else, she would stop. The sound of her voice grated on him. That pleading tone, instead of making him want to comfort her, only made him want to put his fingers in his ears. This was the worst part about fighting with her -- not the argument, but the calming down phase afterwards.
The baby had stopped crying. James held his breath, waiting for the crying to start all over again. It didn’t. Minutes passed and still there was quiet. He felt his shoulders relax, noticed his fists unclench.
"I guess he will sleep," he said.
Wendy lay back on the bed. She placed her arm over her eyes and started to sob. James climbed next to her. He reached around her, tried to pull her close. Her body was stiff against him.
"It's so hard," she whispered.
“I know. I’m exhausted too.”
“Everything’s just so hard. It just doesn’t seem like it should be.”
James said, “It’ll be better when he starts sleeping through the night. We really need some sleep, that’s all.”
She wiped her nose on her sleeve, pressed the heels of her hands hard against her eyes.
“I just don’t know,” she said.
James was up on one elbow looking down at her. He brushed back her hair and ran his fingertips over her eyebrows. Moving next to her, he again wrapped his arms around her. This time she moved into him -- soft, almost yielding. The baby was still quiet. James closed his eyes and nuzzled his wife's hair. He drifted quietly. Drifted while his body remained on the bed. Drifted like a lost balloon while his heavy limbs lay on top of his wife.
She nudged him awake.
"The baby’s up," she said.
“Do you want me to get him?”
“Please,” she sighed, her breath becoming rhythmic and deep once more.
James sat up slowly and put his head in his hands, rubbed his eyes, ran his fingers through his hair. He walked across the hall and placed his hand on the doorknob. Pausing, he felt the crisp cool metal and listened to Billy cooing in his crib. He opened the door. A shaft of light from the window stabbed at the center of the floor. Billy was on his back smiling up at his father.
“Did you have a good sleep?” James asked.
The baby looked at him, gurgled a little.
“Let’s change that diaper,” James said.
Billy’s damp warm breath brushed against James’ neck as he carried Billy over to the changing table. James put him down, looked at his face -- those almond eyes too close together, that broad forehead. Mongoloid, he thought. When James was a kid they called them mongoloids. James’ own mother had called Billy that the first time she saw him. Probably without thinking, but Wendy was pissed. “He’s a down-syndrome baby,” she had said, “not a mongoloid.”
James taped on the diaper, bent over and blew air on Billy’s belly. Billy laughed loud, squealed, flailed his arms and laughed some more.
“Your mommy is still asleep. Why don’t we go get her up?”
They crossed the hall. James held the boy against him as he pushed open the door. The little fingers curled around his neck, worked into his short hair. Still holding Billy, James sat on the bed.
“Hello,” Wendy sighed as she brushed Billy’s cheek.
She sat up, leaned against the headboard. Her face was puffy. She unbuttoned her shirt and exposed her fuller breasts. James handed over Billy. Wendy pulled him to her, propped a pillow under him. The soft light saturated the two of them, covered them -- her there with her exposed breast, Billy curled up into her. They were almost one being; one created from two.
James slipped out of the room and down the hallway. He went to the refrigerator and grabbed the carton of orange juice and filled a tall glass. He sat with it at the dinner table. After some time he heard Wendy open the bedroom door and start down the hall. James rotated his shoulders, trying to loosen them up. Wendy pulled out a chair and sat down across from James. She held the baby over her shoulder and patted him on the back. Her shirt was still not buttoned totally. The white tops of her large breasts were visible.
Wendy said, “What do you say we go to the zoo?”
“I don’t know.”
“Come on. It will be fun. Billy will like it.”
“He’s not going to get a lot out of it.”
“Oh, he’ll like it. Babies take in more than you think.”
James drank slowly.
“Besides,” she said, “they’ve got a new gorilla I want to see.”
“So?”
“I heard about this one on the news. He was kept in this mall in Ohio for just about his whole life. He lived in this little room, you know, so everyone would come by and look at him. He’s never been outdoors.”
“That sucks.”
“Yeah, well now this zoo has him because people started protesting. They didn’t think he should have to stay in that tiny room and be watched all day.”
“Like a freak,” James said quietly.
“Like a freak,” Wendy repeated. She added, “Today is the first day he’s going to be allowed outside”
So they got ready. Wendy took the baby and changed his clothes while James packed the diaper bag. James was tying his shoes when Wendy and the baby padded down the hallway towards him.
“I’ll get the baby in the car,” Wendy said.
James nodded, watched her and Billy go out the door and down the stairs. He finished tying his shoes and straightened up slowly, almost arthritically. He grabbed the diaper bag and stood there for a moment, poised in an odd position -- his one hand holding the bag, his head tilting slightly, his left hip shifted out. He stared blankly out the window and for some reason noticed the trees swaying, the leaves fluttering. For a split second he thought he might cry. But then he shook himself and headed out to the car.
“Are we all set?” he asked once he was seated.
“Let me snap my belt on.”
Billy was in the back seat. The straps of his child seat pulled at the cloth of his shirt, ruffled it, puffed it out. He stared at the black and white mobile that hung in front of him. Wendy’s belt clicked loudly as she fastened it. James started the car.
They hadn’t driven far when James said, “Are you okay? Are we okay?”
“I guess.”
Some cars passed them.
Wendy said, “You said some really mean things. It’s hard for me to just forget about them.”
“I know.”
Wendy looked out the window for a long time.
Wendy said, “Billy’s staying with us. I’m not going to let anyone else take care of him.”
“I didn’t mean it when I said that. It was a stupid thing to say.”
“You should never say anything like that.”
“I won’t. I promise I won’t.”
James clenched the steering wheel in both hands. He moved the mirror down so he could see Billy. The sun was filtering into the back seat. Sunlight coated Billy’s legs, reflected his red shirt onto his face so that he looked rosy -- jolly almost. It hurt when James thought about Billy being gone. And it hurt when he thought about Billy staying, about spending his whole life looking after Billy.
But Wendy seemed to be handling it. James glanced at her as he drove, thought about more of the things he had said to her when they had argued -- things that hurt him to think of. He thought about how sometimes when they argued he could feel the meanness coming out, could feel himself forming those vile words, but still not stopping them. Sometimes he couldn’t stop himself, and sometimes he just didn’t want to.
How do you make yourself want to?
They drove in silence -- the only sound was an occasional squeal or gurgle from the baby and the thumping, thumping, thumping of the tires against the asphalt.
They pulled into the zoo parking lot. James drove slowly through the crowded lot. He prowled for a space, ready at any time pounce. The sun had heated up the car. James dabbed at the slippery sweat that dotted his forehead. Finally he found a space and parked the car. As he gathered up all the baby equipment, Wendy got the baby out of the seat. James popped the trunk and pulled out the stroller. Wendy placed Billy into it carefully, tugged his tiny hat lower to keep the sun out of his face.
They headed towards the entrance, they melted in with the other people who were briskly making their way inside . James pushed the stroller. Wendy walked next to him. Neither spoke as they walked up to the ticket gait, as they wheeled themselves through and inside.
“Do we see the gorilla first?” James asked.
“Can we?”
“When do they let him out.”
Wendy glanced at the combination map and advertisement they had been handed on the way in.
“Oh,” she said. “In a couple of minutes. Let’s hurry and we’ll be able to see it.”
They weaved quickly through the crowd. Billy leaned forward in the stroller, reached out towards the passing people. Stop looking at him, James thought. Just stop looking at him. James’ jaw shut tight, clenched. His teeth worked against each other.
Wendy said, “Here, over here.”
They pushed their way through the people, up to a fence, and peered inside.
“Is he out?” James asked.
“I don’t think so,” said Wendy.
A man standing next to them said, “They are going to let him out any time now. That door,” he pointed to the far end of the cage, “is where he will come out of.”
As James squinted at the door, it slowly opened. Inside of it, just in the shadow, you could make out what looked like a gorilla. The crowd pressed tight together.
“I don’t see him,” said Wendy.
“There. To the left of the door. Inside to the left,” said the man who had told them where to look.
The spectators were silent as they waited. James gradually gripped the handle of the stroller tighter in his fist. Wendy had her fingers wrapped in the fence. Billy too was quiet.
The gorilla moved closer to the open door, poked his head out.
“Here he comes,” said Wendy.
But he didn’t. The gorilla stood at the edge and peered out. He put his hand out the open door, yet would not follow it. Minutes passed. Grumbling onlookers started to leave.
“He’ll come out,” Wendy said. “He will. I know it.”
She reached down and picked up Billy.
Still the gorilla remained on the edge.
“Maybe he just doesn’t want to,” James said.
Wendy whispered, “He has to.”
A half an hour passed. The man who had spoken to them earlier drifted away with rest of the crowd. Wendy turned to James, her eyes puddled with tears.
“We came here to see him,” she said to James.
“He’ll come out.”
They stood there and watched, and he didn’t come out. They stood there and watched, and this gorilla stood there too, still inside, like he had been for his whole life. Still inside this cage. And Wendy shook -- with what seemed like rage, like sadness. She began to sob. James pulled her to him, pulled her so tight he thought he might be crushing her.
“We’ll wait,” he said softly into her ear.
Wendy put her head onto James’ shoulder. Billy shifted some in Wendy’s arms. She place him back into the stroller. He sat so still, so calm.
James said, “We will wait right here.”
They stood there, holding each other -- neither one of them looking at the open door, neither on of them moving or seeming to breathe. And the baby silent in the stroller next to them. Wendy crying uncontrollably now. And they leaned slightly against an invisible force, invisible wind.
And they waited.

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Search inside!

2008-04-29T05:41:00.000-07:00

Cool. Amazon lets you now search inside my book. Check it out! It allows you to read the first full chapter...

Held no more...

2008-04-29T05:39:00.000-07:00

Entropy is back and ready for sale...

Only ONE book club discount is left, so get it while the getting is good!

Brief Hold...

2008-04-28T09:52:00.001-07:00

I've had to make some changes to the novel, so it may be a day or so until it is available again. Sorry for the inconvenience.

Attention Book Clubs!

2008-04-25T06:26:00.000-07:00

A limited time promotion! The first two book clubs who choose Entropy as their selection will receive 5 free copies when they order a minimum of 5 copies at the regular price. In addition, all book clubs who order 5 or more copies will get ten percent off the list price of 14.99. Email me at for information if you are interested.

Ready to roll....

2008-04-25T05:45:00.001-07:00

Well, since Entropy has been published and the marketing will be beginning soon, expect to see more in the upcoming days -- for now, here's the Amazon link.

Excerpt -- Chapter 1

2008-04-01T09:35:00.000-07:00

I sit here alone. That’s okay with me.
Normally in the fall it’s cold and damp, but sometimes the humidity leaves for a while and it warms up, it gets just warm, not the mean heat of summer. My coworkers sit together in small groups. Some are at tables, others lounge on the grass, sit under trees. I think everyone who works at this place is eating lunch outside. That factory makes you want to escape when you can. I mean, the noise alone will drive you crazy, but add to that no windows, and it’s worse than a prison.
Today is one of those days when the clouds are just right and you feel the need to be outside. Nearby a lawn mower buzzes and the smell of the grass mingles with the warm, dry fall air. Only a very light breeze moves the tree branches. I sit at a picnic table, my back to the sun. It warms me, makes me feel a little better. The sun is good. It can make you forget if you just let it.

So just about everyone is out here, and nobody has come near me, nobody has spoken to me. Which is how I want it. But you know, I can feel their eyes on me. I can imagine their conversations about me, wondering how I’m taking it, trying to find out what the real story is. By now, you would think it would be old news. Why should it be a big deal?
But maybe nobody is concerned with my situation. Perhaps their interest is just in my imagination. Who knows?
Anyway, I take a bite of my sandwich and put it down, then spread my newspaper out in front of me. A person’s shadow darkens the paper, but I don’t look up. Maybe she’ll go way. I know it’s a she because there is only one person who would feel the need to talk to me now -- Fat Marge. Fat Marge and her sidekick Kelly. Kelly is the pretty girl of the two. Very pretty. I’ve no idea why she hangs out with Fat Marge. Fat Marge is a pain, she talks to whomever she can, whether they want to talk or not. And she’s always bothering me. Always. She constantly tries to get me to listen to her religious babble. She tells me that Jesus is Lord, or that He loves me, or that He is coming. Jesus is coming. Right. Like Fat Marge would be the first person to know.
“Hey buddy.”
I look up. Instead of Fat Marge, it’s Dixon McCullough. I want to say, “go away,” but don’t.
“Hey,” I offer up instead.
Dixon sits down. He’s a strange guy. I mean, he’s hard to figure out. From a distance, he looks like harmless, typical -- he’s got the right clothes, the right walk. He’s got that look. But when you’re close, you see the problems; his clothes are generally scruffy and wrinkled, his hair is always shaggy and uncombed. Those kind of things.
“Look, Nick,” Dixon says to me. “I’m sorry to hear about your wife.”
He puts his sweaty hand out for me to shake.
I’m shaking hands and thinking I should have told him to go away.
“Thanks,” I say.
Dixon is not someone I would consider a friend. Of course, that could apply to everyone at this factory, everyone here at ComBuilt. There is really nobody here that I’d call a friend. But I’ve got lots of acquaintances. Tons.
So Dixon is still sitting here. He opens a paper bag, retrieves a sandwich, starts to eat. A breeze comes up and rattles my newspaper. It levitates momentarily, then settles once the wind dies down.
I try to ignore Dixon. Try to ignore his unshaved face, red-rimmed eyes. He reminds of this kid I knew when I was six or seven. This kid was mean -- I remember one time he caught a frog and made it jump out of his second-story bedroom window over and over again until the frog was dead.
Dixon looks just like that kid.
“You must feel bad, I guess,” he says.
“What?”
“Your wife having left you and all. It’s pretty fucked up, I guess.”
“Uh huh,” I say.
“I know it was hard when you guys lost the baby. Is that why she left?”
“Who knows,” I say. I stay silent hoping this torturous conversation will end. Dixon pulls a thermos out of his paper grocery bag. He opens it and pours the liquid into the little cup thing.
“Would you like some?” he asks.
“No, no thanks,”
“Are you sure?”
“Really, no thanks. I’ve got my own”
I hold up a diet soda.
“Okay,” he says.
He smiles and takes a drink.
I go back to my paper.
“So, I was thinking,” he says.
I look up, take the last bite of my sandwich.
“I was thinking, it might be fun if we went out tonight. You know, go bar hopping or something. It might be good for you.”
“I’m okay. Don’t worry about me. I feel fine.”
“Oh, I know. I didn’t mean you weren’t. I just thought it might be fun to go out.”
“I don’t think so,” I say. “But thanks for asking.”
Dixon nods, pulls a crumpled pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and offers me one.
“I don’t smoke,” I say.
He nods again and lights his cigarette. The smoke drifts across to my face. He lets the smoke flow out of his mouth and sucks it back in through his nose.
Then he exhales.
“I only smoke one a day,” he says.
“Like vitamins,” I say.
He laughs, “Yeah, like vitamins. Of course, I also smoke when I drink. Smoking and drinking just kind of go together.”
“Like raping and pillaging.”
He laughs again -- it’s more of snort. He seems unsure of whether I’m making fun of him, or just joking around. I’m not too sure either.
I clean up my garbage, fold my paper, stand up.
I say, “I guess I’ll see you inside.”
“I guess,” Dixon says. “See you.”
I let my eyes adjust to the dim light, then go to my workstation. The air in here isn’t very fresh. A faint chemical smell lingers. I reach my table and take out my tools; once the conveyor starts going, I’ll be ready.
The conveyor starts exactly on time, and work begins. It’s funny, everything in here starts exactly when it’s supposed to. I guess sometimes the people don’t. But the machines -- they always do. They start, keep going. Every movement, every turn of a sprocket is done when ordered. And it seems like the machines here never break. I mean never. They just keep on going, keep on churning. They stop for no one.
So work has begun. There’s the bustle of movement and shouts. There’s the high-pitched beeping of equipment, the constant rumbling of the conveyor. The noise assaults your ears until you are sure they will start bleeding. If someone were being murdered, if someone were having their heart ripped from their chest, you’d never hear it over the din.
I lift a computer off of the line and start putting a disk drive into it. The work goes rapidly, and once the drive is in, I run a quick diagnostic. The machine checks out, so I attach the correct paper work, put the computer back onto the line, watch it disappear down the track where someone is eagerly waiting to box it up. I pick another machine and start the process all over again. Little concentration is needed, and my mind usually wanders.
That’s not good. It’s been a month or so since my wife left, and on every one of those days I’ve thought about her. I sometimes try to stop, try to think of other things, because, let’s face it, there’s no use thinking about my wife -- it will do no good. But inevitably my thoughts drift to her. So I play games with it, try to remember different details. Sometimes the memory of our wedding comes to mind. Other times it’s stupid things I remember. Like once, when we were still dating, she was so proud of herself for having cleaned up my apartment while I was at work. But I got mad at her -- was she saying I was dirty or something, saying that I couldn’t take care of my own place? Really, she just wanted me to say she had done a good job. She wanted my approval, but I just couldn’t see it. Instead, I ended up starting an argument.
That type of stuff always seemed to happen with us. Arguments over things we couldn’t recognize.
And other memories come and go. After awhile, I don’t try to stop them. Maybe if I let the memories happen I can get them out of my system. Like when a song is stuck in your head; if you try to block it out, you never get rid of it. But if you just sing along, before you know it, the stupid thing is gone.
A lot of times I try to remember when I knew she was going to leave. I mean, she never told me she was leaving. She just left. But still, I had to have known. How can you live with someone for four years and not know something like that? I probably knew for a long time. Maybe even before she did.
Dixon walks by my workstation. That guy is never where he is supposed to be, and yet no one seems to care. I watch him walk past and think about his offer. Why don’t I go? How bad could it really be? Lord knows it’s better than sitting home watching television. Besides, who else is there for me to go out with? Not that I really long to go out, but what the hell?
Still, Dixon is pretty out there. I mean, he kind of gives you that uncomfortable feeling. Maybe it’s the way he looks a you, like he’s searching for weakness or something. Or maybe it’s because the guy doesn’t seem to be all there. I don’t know.
The day drags by, but finally it is three-thirty. I clean up my area, lock the tool drawer. I join the crowd streaming towards the parking lot. Dixon is up ahead of me.
I find myself calling out, “Hey Dixon.”
He slows and lets me catch up.
“Yeah?”
“You still feel like going out drinking?” I ask.
“Absolutely,” he says.

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