Appearances...

Sure, she was attractive enough in a plain, conservative sort of manner. But no one would have guessed what the staid, gray pantsuit was hiding as she strolled into the office. It was even less likely that that someone would have realized that her hair wasn't tousled by the wind during her lunch break...

Betrayed

The glass drained in one swift gulp, he slammed it down on the bar, ice cubes clinking against the sides as he motioned to the bartender for another refill of the amber-colored tonic that he hoped would make it all go away. But no matter how many times the barkeep poured, or how many drinks he emptied, the heartache remained, burning straight to his core.

"How could she?" he barked at the bartender. "How could she do it, Mike? You've known her just as long as I have.......how did this happen?"

Mike shook his head, never looking up from the glasses he was washing. "Doesn't sound like the Dani I knew, man. You sure about this?"

"I saw it with my own damn eyes, man!" He slammed his glass down on the bar again, ice sliding across the glossy surface as the glass tipped over, rolled off and hit the floor with the tinkle of shattering glass. "I saw the shadows through the living room curtains. She's doing it in my own freaking house!"

"Well, then how long has it been going on, Shawn?"

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?" he snarled. "And where's my refill?"

"Once you've broken your third glass of the night, I think you're far too drunk to be served anymore. And you've suddenly been in here almost every night for about a month - which is ten times as much as I normally see you - draining every drop of J.D. I can find.”

Mike looked up into Shawn's ashen face.

"So exactly how many times have you seen it with your own eyes?"

Shawn dropped a pair of twenties on the bar and walked away wordlessly, slamming the door as he exited. Mike went back to his glass washing, wondering if perhaps he should be a better friend.

Anthology update

So, the anthology which will feature a short story of mine now has a firm launch date, which nicely coincides with "National Read Across America Day" on March 2nd.  For those who need a little background on the story, see this post:

https://a-writer-in-progress.blogspot.com/2017/12/note-to-self.html

The editors recently put up a "Meet the Writers" page (link below), and those of us contributing to the anthology were asked to ensure that our information was displayed correctly.  I did so, and then browsed through some of the other writers involved.  I was immediately humbled.  There are real writers being featured in this collection.  People who get paid to create stories!  Authors of books, writers whose stories have been featured in a number of literary journals, and creators whose work has won prestigious awards.

And me.  The hobbyist who scrawls a few sentences when he isn't overwhelmed with work, coaching, volunteering or family.  I'm both flattered and terrified to be included with such a talented group.

Anchala Studios - Meet the Writers

The anthology is titled "The Collection: Flash Fiction for Flash Memory". The inspiration behind the creation of the anthology is beautiful and heart-tugging - after you've checked out the "Meet the Writers" page, click HOME at the top of the screen and read the story behind the stories.  The moment I finished that page, I knew I wanted very much to be a part of such an amazing project.

And now I am.  It's all a little surreal and unexpected.  To this point in my life, the only time my name was in print was in advertisements during my previous career in sales.  Yet in less than two months, my name will appear in an actual, published book. 

Damn.

And the point is...

So, as I alluded to in the post regarding writer's block, the only writing that is currently making real progress is a piece that I didn't really set out to write.  Well, at least not in the form it seems to be taking.

I began writing a piece directed at a contest where the theme was "body language".  I had this funny pair of lines in the writing journal that seemed like the perfect starting point, and began crafting a piece about two women on a video-chat date.  It allowed me to weave in different types of body language that would help tell the story and describe the women at the same time.

A minor problem soon appeared.  The contest had a strict limit of 1200 words - and there was no way this piece was going to wrap in that space.  So I put it aside to work on other things. 

Or so I thought.

Every time I tried to work on a different project, the video date story reared its head.  A thought would enter my mind, and I'd write a few more paragraphs.  Then came my trip to California.

I had a week-long trip to San Jose scheduled for some job training.  I'm not much of a traveler.  Not a huge fan of flying (as odd as that may be, given that I work in the aviation industry!), and mostly would just prefer to be at home.  So I make sure to have plenty of distractions when I fly in (usually fruitless) attempts to make the time pass a bit more quickly.

I brought a couple of books, and some of my writing work.  Including the video date story.

I started out the flight to California with a movie, but eventually pulled out my writing.  And the story just came pouring out.  With very minimal effort, I'd filled close to fifteen pages.  Throughout the trip and the return flight it continued.  And now I have this sprawling piece, and I have no earthly idea what the correct direction is.

It's too long for a short story.  Seems like a pretty limited concept for a novel, or even a novella.  The story is currently taking the shape of a real-time view of this date, which I think is approaching hour four or five.

Don't ask me what the point of this post is.  I don't have a clue on that direction either.

Rivals

"This is why we are here, men!" the old coach barked, pounding his fist into his palm for emphasis.

"This is the reason we bust our asses every day. It's why you run twice as hard and practice twice as long, and why I yell twice as loud!"

He held up the daily sports page, pointing a battered, crooked finger at the headline.

"To finally defeat that damned team..."

Blocked?

He sat under his favorite tree by the river, enjoying the cool late summer breeze as it passed over the water. This was HIS place - his getaway for a bit of solitude and a few minutes away from everyday distractions. Yet he sat with pencil in hand, unable to break the block. The blank page seemed to mock his inability to fill it...

A number of years ago, I was the "he" in the brief scene above. Writer's block had morphed into full-blown writer's constipation. Every project I was working on sat unfinished. The time I set aside for writing would come and go with nothing but blank pages, or maybe a few scribbled out sentence fragments. So I ventured to my favorite riverside spot, figuring it would inspire fresh work. It did not.

I arrived home dejected, and suddenly was hit with a bright idea. I would break the block by crafting a story ABOUT writer's block! Genius, right?

Umm, clearly that didn't work either, since I didn't get any farther than what you see above.

I was rummaging through some old scrap work and journal entries looking for prompts or ideas for a contest piece, and discovered the little snippet from years ago. I smiled, feeling good that I'm not suffering through the same struggle now.

Then I reflected a moment. The novel I set out to write many years ago still sits in a dusty binder, no closer to finished than it was eight years ago when I set it aside. The novel project that "replaced" it? Stormed along at a breakneck pace - then stalled. It hasn't been touched in close to a year. Frankly, the only long piece I've made progress on began its life as a 1000-1200 word short story for a contest.  It quickly outgrew that, but I have no idea where it's going to end up - the story just keeps pouring out.

Meanwhile, things that I want to work on, like other contest pieces, are a battle.

Maybe I smiled too soon.

Note to self...

...don't publish blog posts at midnight after an 11 hour day at work.  You might get sidetracked and forget the primary reason for the post.

A few years back, I wrote a short piece entitled "One Night Only".  I was never really satisfied with the ending, but I also never really found the motivation or inspiration to fix it.  So the story sat in a folder on a flash drive, awaiting a future purpose.

Then the flash drive was lost.  It contained edits on one of my novel pieces, along with "final" versions of all of my short story work.  I was devastated - especially in the case of the novel work, where I had begun editing portions straight to the computer.  My hard copy backup didn't contain most of these edits, which were now gone forever.

Now, the losses weren't complete.  According to most people I know, I'm "old school".  I still actually write - by hand with a pen or pencil.  I typically don't hit the computer with a piece until it is completely written and has gone through a preliminary editing process.  So I had at least a preliminary paper version of almost all of the stories on the departed drive.

But apparently a funny thing happened on the way to complete backup safety.

See, a few months ago I began submitting pieces to contests and publishers again.  An opportunity caught my eye for an anthology being put together by a publishing outfit called Anchala Studios.  As I read it, I thought to myself that "One Night Only" was the perfect piece for submission, as long as I fixed the ending.  So, I dug out my folders and binders to find my paper copy.  Which somehow was missing a page.

The second page.  The original ending.

Thus forcing a complete re-write of the end of the piece.

As I type this, Anchala Studios is putting the finishing touches on the anthology, which will contain the updated version of "One Night Only".

I guess sometimes things just work out.

Pardon my dust...

No, I'm not remodeling.  Just reviving my long dormant blog.  It's amazing how much dust collects when something is neglected.  Blog gadgets that no longer function, old posts that don't seem to make sense anymore, links to sites that no longer exist - even a blog description that doesn't really fit the mission now.  So, a little clean-up, a few modifications, and...well, I suppose I actually AM remodeling,  so to speak.

A quick review tells me the last time this blog was active was about six years ago, with the last sporadic posts happening in 2012 and 2013.  Boy, has a lot changed since then.  I was still considering writing as an eventual career plan back then.  But life has a funny way of heading n a direction you didn't really set out to pursue.

Instead, I am now a college graduate (yeah, a little behind "schedule") with a career I enjoy.  Writing remains a "side project".  But one for which I still carry a tremendous passion.

So I write.  Almost every day.  Most of my work still leans toward short stories, and I've even begun submitting pieces for contests again.  It's not a career pursuit anymore, but maybe one of these days I'll actually get the right combination of inspiration and opportunity to finish one of my in-progress novel projects and make a few dollars.

In the meantime, it may not be the trip I set out upon many years ago, but my journey can still be followed here.

Tired Still.....

A piece originally written for an essay contest dealing with the true meaning of love. Today seemed like the right day to release it to the world.....or at least the tiny portion that might run across my blog.

TIRED STILL, YET TIRED NOT FROM LOVING YOU…..

The morning of October 30th, 1998 saw the venerable Holy Name of Jesus church filled to standing room capacity. I hadn’t seen that happen in my entire twenty-three years. As the gathering left the church, the line of cars stretched nearly a mile and a half, slowly crawling to his final resting place. I struggled mightily to maintain my composure and remain strong for my family while I witnessed my hero and my best friend being laid to rest. I watched awestruck as the scores of people paid their respects on their way out of the chapel, and I quickly became aware of the massive impact his life had made on the world. Four nights prior, however, his life made an even bigger impact on me – he allowed me to discover what it truly means to love.

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

My younger brother Stephen was born with a fatal genetic disease called Cystic Fibrosis, or CF for short. At the time of his birth in 1978, little was known about treatment for CF, and even the luckiest of children didn’t generally make it further than five or six years before the disease ravaged their lungs to the point of ending their lives. In Stephen’s case, we were actually unaware of his disease until he nearly passed away at only six months old. In hindsight though, we were lucky for the timing of his arrival; great strides were about to be made in research toward new treatments for the disorder, giving us hope as he grew that perhaps Stephen could beat the odds.

Indeed, he made a life out of beating the odds. Stephen refused to be limited by his disease, no matter what it might cost him. Despite repeated pleas by our parents and his doctors for moderation, he insisted on living his life to the fullest extent possible. He played competitive sports, including hockey and basketball, and was always among the most intense and hardest working participants. Auto repair was such a talent for him that it was a rare weekend that didn’t find someone begging for his assistance and expertise. But his real passion was the drums. Although was entirely self-taught and spent most of his time banging on secondhand equipment, he easily ranked as one of the finest and most creative rock drummers in our area and formed the backbone of an outstanding band. His will to not simply live, but to live on HIS terms, was both inspiring and humbling. He refused to use his disease as a crutch, and wouldn’t even consider allowing someone else to decide he wasn’t capable of something he wanted to accomplish.

Far more important, however, was the way he touched lives. Even on Stephen’s weakest days he’d take time out to comfort someone in need. During his many hospital stays, visitors would usually have to search the hallways to determine which friend’s room he was in, because invariably he was busy putting aside his own problems to make someone else’s day better. Stephen never turned away a friend or family member in need of a good listener, and he was literally my hero more times than I could ever repay. He fixed my cars with me, gave me advice when I had problems and assisted me out of more difficult situations than I’d actually care to recall. As we grew older, he took the stereotypical “big brother” role far more often than I did, helping me battle through some of my worst decisions and most troublesome experiences. Stephen’s passing crushed me – I felt a powerful emptiness without him. But his final evening in our midst had awakened me with that same kind of power.

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

My phone rang fairly early on the morning of October 26th. It was my mother. “You need to be at the hospital tonight. Stevie wants us all there for a small party before his surgery tomorrow.” Stephen was having surgery in the afternoon on the 27th. His last several weeks had been very difficult, and this operation was a necessary step for him to have any chance to survive – his functions had deteriorated too far for medication to help anymore. And although nobody wanted to admit it, his chances weren’t very good either way; it was a risky procedure, and his body wasn’t very strong at this point. But that wasn’t the topic on the lips of Stephen’s friends and family on October 26th. He wouldn’t allow it. A “small party” turned into every close family member and friend who could get to the hospital that evening – over 25 people cramming into his hospital room and spilling into the hallway.

 Stephen demanded a Polaroid camera for the evening; he wanted pictures taken with everybody that night. Memorable photos of him with his brothers, his best friends, our parents – everyone in attendance sat or stood next to him for at least a few photos; some serious, some more light-hearted and some downright silly. The nurses and doctors who’d cared for him for so long and many CF patients who’d shared his journey joined us in the revelry as the entire seventh floor of the Children’s Hospital of Buffalo became one big celebration. We discussed music, favorite foods and our hometown sports teams…..laughed, hugged and joked…..and for one magical, special evening forgot about the worry and terror we’d all been feeling since the surgery had been scheduled.

Even on the night before he was scheduled for the riskiest medical procedure of his too-short life, Stephen possessed such a strong love for all of us that he provided us with one final night to enjoy his presence in our lives without thinking about the possibilities that lie ahead the next day. He knew quite well what his chances were, and I’m certain he was just as fearful as any of us - and yet he put all of it aside in one final act of pure selflessness. And in the process he taught me the power of true love.

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

Stephen didn’t even make it into the surgery – by the time the doctors had prepared him, his once-impressive strength had faded too much. He never regained consciousness. We spent the day and evening of October 27th at his bedside, praying for a miracle that wouldn’t come. He passed on shortly after midnight. Over the next few days, my mother distributed the many photos from the party throughout the friends and family – as Stephen had requested her to do if he didn’t make it through the surgery. I didn’t get the opportunity to thank him for the lesson he taught me, but it gives me some comfort to assume that he had a fairly good idea how his act would affect me. Stephen’s final gift to me was the ultimate “big brother” moment – he gave me the understanding I would need to carry on after he was gone.

LEARNING THE HARD WAY

An excerpt of a far longer piece.

But the wisest advice I was given came from the elder statesman of the crew, Charles Benjamin, the “ace” reporter.

“Sonny,” he said, “this life’s gonna throw you some curveballs. No matter how well you think you’ve plotted things out, something – probably a woman – is gonna end up derailing your plan. And buddy, you better be carefully prepared for it if you wanna stand a chance of getting back on course when it happens.”

Unfortunately, his was the advice I ignored.

Mary Jamison was hired to replace Mr. Hansen’s personal secretary six months to the day after I began working for the Review…..November 27, 1976 – two days before my birthday. She walked into the news room and all productive activity ceased completely. The incessant tapping of typewriter keys gave way to the soft clickety-clack of her high-heeled shoes as every eye was fully trained on the golden-haired beauty crossing the room. Including a certain young assistant copywriter who very nearly found himself wearing Mr. Hansen’s coffee after a collision with a desk chair.

I took a moment to regain my composure before continuing my coffee delivery, timidly knocking on Mr. Hansen’s door. “Boy, don’t waste time knocking, just get my coffee in here!” he bellowed. As I opened the door, Miss Jamison turned in my direction. My first glimpse at her smoldering blue eyes took my breath away – I could faintly hear Mr. Hansen introducing me; frankly, he could have been calling me a sub-human swamp beast or throwing bricks at me at that moment, and I wouldn’t have noticed. My hand trembled ever so slightly as she grasped it in a handshake, and I caught sight of a shy smile on her face before she turned her attention back to Mr. Hansen.

I’m fairly certain I walked out of Mr. Hansen’s office upright, but I couldn’t make you any guarantees – I was in a complete daze. Beautiful wasn’t even the right word to describe Mary Jamison. Stunning – yeah, that’s more accurate. You know, the kind of girl that grabs your attention like a vise, and you’re powerless to get free.