Evaluation
"Jake" impresses me more and more as I get to know him. He has to be asked to help out with a house project only once, and rarely skips out before the project is done. He clears the snow off the decks after being asked once. We have not had a single argument with him. He gives The Wife a little lip, but nearly always with this curious little half-smile that I've come to know means that he is kidding.
He's kind to the animals, and has been solidly adopted and duly worshiped by Zach. The cats love him. Suki has fit into a houseful of cats and dogs as if she had been here all along, with not a single accident outside her litter box.
"Jake" also wants to join the military...I've been told he wouldn't have a great chance at getting in, but I'm not sure why aside from the fact that he takes meds. If he could drop the meds at some point, I think they'd take him based on what I've seen, but I guess there could be things I don't know about. His former foster parents for whatever reason tried to discourage him from joining by reminding him that people get killed in the military.
D'oh! Being willing to give your life for your country (if necessary) is the whole point. Nice side benefits are gaining discipline, self-confidence and a sense of mission about your life. I tried to join during the run-up to the first Gulf War (disqualified because of some medical issues...damn). I have no doubt I'd be a better person today if I'd made it in. And I've only ever personally known two vets who stated that they would rather they had never joined, and they both had to kill a lot of people in Vietnam. I've probably known a hundred vets (including Dad), all of whom benefitted in various ways from their service as much as the country did.
But anyway, this kid seems normal in almost every way, which is amazing given the few things I've learned about his family situation. Absolutely amazing.
And incidentally the reimbursement for this one is the highest of any kid we've ever had. I will NEVER understand how they assign those values. It seems like the reimbursement has an exact inverse relationship with the difficulty of taking care of the kid.
Sigh.
Anyway...went to see "Marley & Me" last night for my birthday. Excellent show for a dog-lover who loves to write. It gave me an itch to start writing more again. Maybe I'm barking up the wrong tree trying to get started on a novel. Maybe I should be looking for a gig as a columnist. That would be like blogging, only with deadlines and stuff. That could be seriously fun.
Labels: "Jake", Suki, Writing
Writing for Audiences
People who have read some of my older posts know that I'm a Stephen King (SK) fan. They also probably know that I have been trying unsuccessfully for some time to get up the mojo to begin writing a novel. I've considered the vanity press and just writing something and paying for it to be published so I can say I'm an author, but that seems like a cheap way out. I want someone to like my stuff enough to actually put their money on the line to take a flyer on the chance it might sell some copies.
And that seems to have bound me up in other questions. You see, those of us who worship Stephen King's every word also read his prefaces and so forth. Mr. King is, I suspect like all successful novelists, a complete and unreconstructed egomaniac. Therefore, he refers to me as "constant reader". I forgive him this because, after all, it accurately describes me. And also because the guy is a friggin' genius at getting inside my head and making me want his next offering even more.
Thing is, it's not lack of talent that has stopped me so far. I know I have a certain facility with words. I know I've hit some homers in this blog. I know I've dropped most of my posts in the sewer. What's more, I usually know the difference between the two, and I'm capable of writing enough bombs and stinkers to be able to pick out the gems and stitch them together into a pretty nice tapestry, if I give myself the time and put in the effort.
And therein lies the problem with writing your very best stuff. You are REALLY stretching yourself out and putting your soul on the line when you decide you're going to write a novel. You're going to go through all the crap that you've spent a month writing, pull out the gems, stitch them together and come up with probably a chapter that you can actually use. You have to do this over and over again, for maybe years, until you get enough stuff that will make an entire book.
And for what? Rejection letters. Often your stuff will never get a serious reading. I don't blame anybody in particular for this and I don't need to be told specifically that it happens. I just picture the poor sap who has to slog through 3 novels a week or whatever for minimum wage, and I understand. Then, in order for your bid for stardom to be successful, your offering has to make it through this poor sap to his superior, and to *that* person's superior and so on until it gets to someone who can actually make the decision to offer this guy a contract. Impossible. Or so it would seem.
SK, after he "became" Stephen King, decided to see if he could do it AGAIN. He decided to write as "Richard Bachman", and attempted to publish some works as this fictional writer. You may recognize such works as "Running Man" (The Schwartzeneggar movie was so far from the original that I suggest you read the short story to get the real taste of it). I'm not sure but I think that "The Long Walk" was also by "Richard Bachman". Also "Thinner". Both of those last two deserve to be made into movies, if they haven't already. Even a SK fan can't keep up with all the SK stuff that has been immortalized in film, it seems.
Anyway, the real thing writing-wise SK gave me was to say in some interview or other that he wrote about 10 pages a day. 10 PAGES A DAY. The way it was presented, I was given to believe that yes, there were editing hassles that took more time, but the original manuscript took about 10 pages per day. WOW. And from what I glean from the same sources, he only spends about 3/4 of the time making a living that I do, MAX. That would be about 6 hours a day or a little more. AND WHAT A LIVING IT IS, hey? This guy probably owns Maine by now.
I can only assume that SK does not share my affliction. He MUST have a better ratio of cream to crap. How does he do it? Don't know. As I actually approach the precipice of actually writing my own stuff targeted at non-blog-readers, I'm scared as hell. You guys are EASY compared to that.
On that note, I should thank Auntie J profusely for actually handing over her stuff to me for proofreading. She wrote an entire novel and gave it to me for some proofreading.
She seemed reluctant. I thought at the time that she was being wimpy. I know now what she was fighting with, and I haven't even had the guts to actually create the product, much less give it to someone else to read. For that, J, I apologize. Almost as much as I apologize for the fact that you haven't gotten a proofread copy back from me since you gave it to me. Hope you don't mind if I change some minor sentence structure issues and so forth. I am actually quite good at some things, though you have no real reason to believe that's true yet. Trust me.
Anyway, I've got writing issues along with fostering and adopting issues. That's all I really had to say, I guess. Sorry it took so many words to say it. The mark of a bad writer? Maybe. But I'm counting on you people to buy copies if and when I actually ever make the leap.
You are now returned to your regularly scheduled program.
Labels: Writing
Another Submission
Okay, I recently had a story
accepted for publication in a new regional magazine, which is cool. Of course...when somebody encourages behavior that behavior is likely to be repeated. I've submitted the following to the same editor. She had commented that she was looking for shorter stories, so I tried to crop this one a bit:
A little over a year go I had to have my best friend Beau put to sleep. He was a monstrous hound tipping the scale at 160+ pounds in his prime, and had a wonderful coat the color of a deer. I miss him terribly, but there were things I don't miss so much...like the fact that he was occasionally dumber than dirt.
The day I brought Beau home it was a bit of a surprise even to me. I had decided I wanted a big dog--perhaps something like a Great Dane--and called a few animal shelters to see what they had. One said they had a very big boy that might be a Great Dane cross, but they weren't really certain. Good. I like surprises.
I fell in love with "Rex" instantly, and after a short walk and get-acquainted session I announced to my wife that this would be my dog. Being as soft in the head as I am about these things herself, she didn't bat an eye. "Rex" became "Beauregard" as he jumped into the car, and home we went.
Upon arriving home, my wife stayed in the garage with our new friend to straighten some things up while I went outside to help my father-in-law, who was doing something in the yard. Suddenly we heard a remarkably loud scream, followed by what sounded like something crashing in the garage. I ran to see what was the matter. Suddenly the walk-in garage door was forcefully pushed open and out slunk a lumbering--and very guilty-looking--Beau. He stepped across the yard to the fence, where he turned around and sat, apparently immediately forgetting whatever had happened as he broke into a huge, dopey doggie grin..
I noticed that he had something black or brown all over his feet and on one flank. I turned to the garage again. There stood my wife, covered in oil. I should admit at this point that I change the oil in the cars myself, and sometimes I forget to empty the oil pan into a jug. Beau had walked by the pan, seen 4 quarts of oil sitting there, and for reasons known only to him it made sense to grab the pan in his teeth and fling it in the air. It hit my wife and then the wall, dousing both in oil. Maybe he was celebrating his new home.
A dog nearly died at the hands of a crazed woman that day, but I'm happy to report that he eventually found redemption through being the best dog anybody could hope to know, and spent the rest of his life proving that his first day with us was simply a bad first impression.
It's a great story (I think the long form is better, but requirements are what they are). The fact that it's true: frosting on the cake. The fact that the wife mentioned in the story is my ex: priceless.
Quick "Celeste" update: she went on a "date" Halloween night. So of course, now she has a boyfriend. It's a pity, really. She has the kid's poor dad thinking she's a really, really great girl. Which, of course she is...but not at all the kind of great girl--or at least not in the ways--that he thinks. She has ascertained that the boy is a virgin, and I'm pretty sure she's got her cap set to do something about that.
Now I'm just wondering if I should be warning the Dad. Probably so...but it's just so weird. Usually you're worried that the BOY will seduce the GIRL. Or does that make me a sexist? Probably. So what? So I care about the girl and her effect on the boys she sees, and I'm a little shocked and dismayed that she's promiscuous to the point where even gender isn't a barrier (I worry about her being with girls too, for good reasons). Sue me, call me old fashioned, whatever. Just don't cut off my spaghetti and football on Sundays.
"Melanie" is pretty huge with child these days, and is due any time. We took her to town tonight and bought her dinner and The Wife took her shopping. I think she has adopted The Wife as a semi-official mother/big sister figure, and that seems good to me because she needs somebody like that. It will be hard enough being a mother at her age without a husband or even involved boyfriend, much less doing it completely alone.
Oh, and I'm banished to the basement with Sammy, my parents' cat (they are in Arizona for 2 weeks and he's staying with us) tomorrow. The Wife has organized a baby shower for "Melanie" upstairs, and I don't want to get messed over into all that girly stuff. I may have to go find some guys and smoke some cigars or do some other macho stuff later just to get it off me. How does anybody around here expect me to be a proper cave-dwelling Neanderthal with all this frilly crap happening? Argh.
I love my life.
Heh.
Labels: "Celeste", Writing
Gridiron Gang
I knew there was something I liked about Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson. Even when I saw him a few times as a wrestler, there's just something about him that's charismatic as hell. Last weekend The Wife and I had a date and went to the movies, where we took in "The Game Plan", Johnson's latest offering. It was GREAT.
But tonight I'm home alone (ever notice how I usually blog when I'm home alone?) and I had a chance to take in "Gridiron Gang", which I never caught before now. I wouldn't have caught it now, except that Starz is having a free preview weekend and I'm taking full advantage, since I'm not too cheap to get satellite TV but am too cheap to buy a premium package. I guess my tolerance for throwing money away lies somewhere between those two points.
Anyway, Johnson's character is a sort of hard core version of me in the movie. He's in charge of a bunch of gang bangers that are in a sort of reformatory, and he's trying to teach them how to be, you know, actual
people...given the ever-present limited resources and
for sure ever-present bad attitudes on the part of the kids he's trying to reach.
Of course, the ending is the typical formulaic football ending with the game in the balance on the last play and the clock down to zero, yadda yadda yadda. I just really liked the way Johnson played the character. He's dealing with a few of his own issues, which are miniature versions of the issues the kids are dealing with. Sounds familiar. He gets frustrated and sometimes pushes the kids farther than they're ready to be pushed. Sounds familiar. He often comes close to giving up or losing his ability to help them. Sounds familiar.
Sometimes even us hopeless cases need a little inspiration. Thanks, Dwayne.
Anyway, in other news, last Friday a man in our church was killed in a car accident. He was the keyboardist for our church's band and one of the founding members. I heard about it late Friday night. I didn't know him well personally, but I knew him to say hello to and we have many mutual friends as well.
I sent a letter to the editor of the local paper, which ended up getting printed as a guest opinion column. Wow. I'd link to it here, but I suspect that would blow my "cover" even more than I've blown it in some of my various posts. For the same reason I'm hesitant to quote any of it, since that invites any yahoo with a search engine to find out my town, and probably more.
But readers here who have never lived in the country or in a small town most likely don't understand what sort of honor this is. I've had letters printed in the Minneapolis Star/Tribune, and once I had a commentary piece printed there. It's a different sort of honor there...there are probably a thousand people who submit commentary-length pieces every day. To get one printed is pretty cool. Somebody who does this stuff for a living decided I had something to say that people should read! Yay me!
This is a different--but no less spectacular--honor. This man was one of the local sons. Everybody knew him and had good things to say about him. The editor of the local paper is that most specialized of creatures. He's the pulse-taker for a small corner of the world. He's looking for a piece to comemmorate this occasion...one that will speak to people who knew the man and will be a lasting piece that will find its home in scrapbooks and photo albums of those who knew him best. That my words would live on in such places is an honor I'm not sure I deserve, but one I'll gladly accept. That's the sort of thing that drives goons like me to write the things we write, after all.
It also seems to have made me a minor local celebrity-for-a-week. Suddenly it seems that many more people around here know who I am, even if it's just "that guy that wrote the article in the paper". The funeral was quite a spectacle, absolutely filling the high school gym. I showed up about 25 minutes early, and from the time I got there until the service started it seemed I thanked about 50 or 60 people who expressed how they liked it. A couple of people seemed speechless, and could only hug me. That's okay. I work for hugs. Heck, I do this just to get it outside of myself, where it can do less damage to my psyche than if it's bottled up inside for too long and turns rancid, you know?
What else...I've had laryngitis for about 3 weeks or more now, and I finally broke down and went to the doctor. She pronounced my throat to be a reasonable facsimile of "raw hamburger". Apparently it's simple tonsilitis, but "at your age, your body has a tougher time fighting off some infections." AT MY AGE! Is it time to apply for my AARP card yet? Sheesh. Anyway, she prescribed some stuff that has me feeling a bit tired, but I'll take it.
Also..."Celeste" is actually progressing pretty nicely. We're ever-so-slowly gaining her confidence, and last week she let the mask slip a bit and referred to The Wife as "Mom". Heh. Wish I could have been there to see her blush. Remember, we're talking about an ultra-tough super-goth bitch grrrrllll here. Plus, she's developed a delightful habit of sometimes walking up behind me while I'm sitting in my chair watching TV and, without saying a word, just leaning on the top of my head with her arms and watching with me for a few minutes.
Finally, related to the sore throat, I can already feel the medicine working and it was slowly starting to improve anyway. What this means--if past history is any guide--is that there is a short window of time coming up, possibly this weekend yet, when my voice will go through what I think of as the Def Leppard/Bon Jovi stage. For as little as a day and as long as two, my voice will retain that rough edge while my vocal cords are twisted into healing knots and I'll be able to sing the entire contents of Def Leppard's "Pyromania" album and Bon Jovi's "Slippery When Wet" and "New Jersey" albums hitting all the notes except the high ones in "Livin' on a prayer", which nobody but Jon himself can sing properly without ripping their vocal cords a new one.
But all in all, it's all good. I still love my life.
Labels: "Celeste", Writing
