What a Writer Wants...

It’s the day before Thanksgiving, and during my 15 minute break for breakfast with Regis and Kelly, I was subjected to six Christmas commercials.

Yes, it is that time of year, folks.

With the impending ‘Black Friday’ sales looming on the horizon, idiots – errr, I mean, serious bargain shoppers, are lining up in front of stores even now. Their Thanksgiving meals will be catered to them by worried relatives who fear for said shoppers’ sanity.

And people have the audacity to call me crazy.

Back on topic. What does a writer want for Christmas?

For me, all I want for Christmas is my six front teeth. Literally.

However, most writers I know still have a healthy set of choppers, so friends and family are left to ponder what else they can get their beloved, struggling author for Christmas.

Luckily for those friends and family, I have compiled this nifty little list. It’s not the end-all or be-all of every writer’s dream present, but I feel it’s a healthy start.

Besides, this is good reading material to print out while one is standing in line at 3 AM waiting for Kohls to open. After all, Best Buy and Office Depot are the next stop, opening at 5 AM… (open, open, open…)

What to get a writer for Christmas (besides four hours added to the 24 hour day):

1. A blank journal. Preferably one without NASCAR or sparkling vampires on it.
2. A massage session to relieve all the tension in the neck and shoulders. Beaucoup points if the masseuse is really cute.
3. A one time (or more) hiring of Merry Maids or said equivalent. Nothing like a clean house to start the New Year off right.
4. Gift cards to an office supply store, a book store, an online music store or a restaurant. Believe me, your author friend will love you.
5. The current year’s copy of the Writer's Market.
6. A lap top (yeah, make that writer smile!).
7. Computer accessories.
8. Event tickets. To anything. Get that writer away from the computer and back into civilization, if even for only one evening.
9. For those single authors, consider a couple weeks worth of freezer meals. This is easy to do. Every time you make something for yourself, double the recipe and place some in a freezable container. Mark the contents and date it. All the author has to do is nuke the thing and he has a good, home cooked meal.
10. Books on writing. An author can never have too many books.
11. Subscriptions to writing journals or magazines.
12. A digital voice recorder.
13. Heck, ditch the recorder and get a cell phone that has not only a voice recorder, but a camera, a video recorder, Internet – and oh, yeah, a phone too!
14. A SUPER nice pen. You know, one that doesn’t say Bic, Papermate, or Pilot on it. Perhaps they won’t lose this one.
15. A gift certificate to a host web site for their future web site.
16. If you are good at building websites, offer your own talents to your writer friend. Give your gift on a decorated certificate, redeemable at the authors leisure.
17. A good coffee machine.
18. A variety of flavored coffees, creamers and imported sugars.
19. A great mug with something witty on the front.
20. Your writer isn’t a coffee drinker? Think about a corkscrew, wine glass and a great bottle of vino. Boone’s Farm still makes Strawberry Hill.
21. For those authors whose best ideas take place in bed (get your minds out of the gutter, folks), a bed desk is practical and multi-functional. (Hey! I said to get your minds out of the gutter!)
22. Are you the creative type? Make a pair of whimsical book ends out of children’s rain boots and cement. Or use your imagination to make any kind of bookends – out of coffee cups, old teapots, etc. Salvation Army is great for this.
23. Purchase the services of a professional editor/proofreader and have the author send in his manuscript when he is done.
24. A new lap top bag. Again, preferably one without the NASCAR logo or any reference to sparkling vampires. (D@mn it! Vampires don’t sparkle!)
25. Computer programs are especially nice if they are geared toward writers.
26. A paid registration for a writers retreat or upcoming writers convention is a great way for your writer to recharge from stressful times.
27. Coffee shop gift certificates. This gets said author out of the house and into the general public, possibly eating and drinking while typing away at a table… (or people watching for inspiration for new characters).
28. Wi-Fi cards (or pre-paid Hot Spot or similar type card) – so your author’s out-of-the-house excursions don’t limit him to the library or McDonalds.
29. Your author has a sense of humor? Try making a survival kit. Include novelty pieces, such as a giant pencil or giant eraser. Order customized notepads, with messages at the top like: "From the demented mind of Dawn” or “Tom’s Brainstorming Pad." Make a silly ‘do not disturb’ sign for a door knob and decorate it with writing paraphernalia. Add a bottle of energy pills to cover any late nights or tight deadlines the person might have. A can of an energy drink or a few single serving snacks round out the package.
30. Make a coupon book. Include such valuable items as: ‘a free beta read’, XX hours of proofreading, a free neck and shoulder rub, a one time deal to clean their bathroom (if you dare…).  You know your writer. What can you offer?
31. If all else fails, get a wastebasket and fill it up with all sorts of office/writing gadgets found in the office/stationary supply aisle of your local, all purpose department store. Don’t forget the ever popular ‘pocket notebook’ the author can carry around to jot down his observations.

Hope this list helps give you the jump start needed to make your author’s Christmas a merry one indeed.

In the meantime, Happy Thanksgiving everyone. Take time to think about the people and the things you are most thankful for.

The Dentist made me do it.

This Wednesday, I am submitting something I wrote for a contest (and won a free magazine subscription.)

Why?

Because I'm still in some MAJOR pain from the dentist office.

It seems the new alloy used to produce bone in my mouth partially worked. I have 2 out of 6 screws in, and no teeth yet. So, back to square one, where they cut me open and stuffed my gum line with more alloy, then stitched me up (which I felt ever d@mn piercing of the suture as it crisscrossed across my mouth.) Needless to say, I am on three pain meds and none of them are working. I am NOT in a mood to write anything dashingly exciting or even clever at this moment.

On a side note: I am closing in on 20,000 words in Nanowrimo. And I have threaten to place my dentist in the role of the demented, sadistic villain. I can do that you know; I am a writer!

Anyway, without further adieu, here is my little snip of a post for open topic.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

In moments of self-doubt, I’m haunted by her words.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Under my nose, my fifth grade teacher shook my original, handwritten, 125 loose leaf page story, bound together with scraps of scarlet yarn.

“Children your age don’t possess the ability to understand adult ideas.” Her acidic glare through dark framed glasses pinned me against a cabinet. “Where did you learn this?”

Before I could defend myself, the woman pinched her lips tight and examined me as an exterminator does a cockroach. “You’re an impertinent student and a deviant freak of nature. You’ll never possess the discipline to be successful author.”

Although I felt stung by the sharpness of her words, the tears came after hearing the hollow echo of my beautiful first book, tossed in to the old metal wastebasket.

So went my first experience as a writer.

Without a doubt, my muse raised its rebellious spirit to confront her challenge.

I will be a published author. My stories will be read, enjoyed, and cherished by others who feel alone. Different from everybody else.

Different. Like me.

I continued to write. I imagined how my stories would touch someone’s life with words of encouragement, to believe in ones self. It’s hard to survive in a world where you’re alone, afraid to hope or love because you believe yourself a deviant freak of nature.

For you see, the things that break an author’s heart are tools used to discover the passion within. This creates a voice conspicuous enough to whisper aloud from the printed words, thus seducing the reader’s soul.

In order for my dream to breathe, however, depended upon how well I learned life lessons through trials of angst, sorrow, and raw hardship. The adversity which I endured while in pursuit of my goal came in many forms:

*My decision to remain faithful to my personal morals forced me to give up my Journalism scholarship.

*I wailed as the jealousy of an abusive ex destroyed 10 years of written tales, cursing me with the prophecy that I’d never become an author because I was a loser.

*With misplaced trust, I fell for deception, believing my stories to be equivalent to a blasphemy. For over a decade, I ceased all writing, my sacrifice to purge the deviant, freakish sins.

Each tribulation added a flux of personal strength, an extra dose of tenacity, and a greater determination to my declaration of who I am, what I write, and why I write it.

And I know, upon the authenticity of publication, my life will change. To accomplish my goals and achieve my dream, I will feel the sweet satisfaction of vindication.

As for the people who swore I’d never succeed, I will let my freak flag fly in victory.

I’ll have greater self-confidence, increased faith in my abilities and announce with pride:

“I am a published author. My stories are read, enjoyed, and cherished by others who feel alone. Different from everybody else.

Different. Like me.”

Halloween: From a Lost Generation Perspective

I recently found out I am of the 'Lost Generation'. Those poor souls born at the tail end of the baby boomers but didn't quite make the mark to be seriously considered for Generation X.

In other words, we are the generation who didn't have careers already established before computers came on the scene, and we are the generation who never got the computer training in school, because most of our schools couldn't afford them when they first started rolling off the assembly line.

However, I digress.

This piece is about a favorite Halloween memory. The backdrop is a time, not too long ago, when one knew their neighbors. When children actually played outside in the sunshine. When one didn't worry about what they ate, being politically correct or staying out after sundown.

The time was 1977.

I was in 6th grade that year. My mother had informed me that since I was on the cusp of becoming a teenager, this would be my last Halloween.

I was devastated.

You see, Halloween was really special back then. It wasn't all horror, gore, and Freddy Kruger.

[caption id="" align="alignright" width="150" caption="devils nite kit, sans the rotten food"]

Arresting Developments (...or When your past catches up with you...)

This week’s topic was “pushing the envelope.”

Anyone who knows me,  knows ‘pushing the envelope’ is as much a part of me as my writing. In fact, sometimes they blend so well, I have trouble separating the yin from the yang. If it has something to do with politics, religion, GLBT rights, ecology, taking a Native American stance, embracing indie philosophy or supporting the e-publishing world – it will be pushed somewhere, sometime in a story of mine.

In other words, I am a rebel with a cause. Several causes. And those causes weave their intricate way into my fictional genre romance stories whether I want them to or not.

But that’s not the post you will read today.

You see, this past weekend, my past caught up with me. I experienced a scary reaction to an increase in my bi-polar medication. It was complicated with symptoms of congestive heart failure.

Needless to say, over the past few days I’ve been spending most of my time between doctors, hospitals, clinics, and in bed -- with a healthy dose of reality: life is too short and though I'm not afraid of death, I'm not ready to go like the rest of my family who died young.

So, in lieu of my normal post, please accept my pre-written, never before published short, tipping my hat to those law enforcement officers I grew up to admire and annoy. It's my belief these men shaped the world around me during a time when it was more fun to cause trouble than it was to stay out of it.

Envelope pushing? Yeah. I was always pushing something with those in authority – and still am, whether it be life in general or in my writing.

Enjoy.

I grew up in a small, northern Michigan community were everyone knew everybody by name and business. I also suspect there were a few incesterious families among the hay lofts, but who am I to judge?

Although my parents were rather prominent in the community, once I turned 16 I was notorious in my own right and intimately knew each one of our fine men in police uniform from the various run ins they had with my gang of idiots. I should stop now to note this was during the 70s/80s, so all minor infractions amounted to innocent mischief and mayhem.

Anyway, we had one Sheriff and four deputies, covering one county. We had three small towns and several townships and villiages, but that was about it.

Sheriff Bates (we called him Master-Bates) was a mean SOB. Tall, lanky with wire aviator glasses perched on his curved beak nose. If he was on your tail, you knew you were done for. If anything, he’d make up something to nail you with so it could be written up for the weekly county newspaper.

He was sheriff for a good 8 years. Then, he was accused of murdering someone in cold blood.

I remember the hoopla well, as my momma's name was pulled for jury duty. She had never had the 'privilege' before, and was looking forward to serving her country. Unfortunately, she was dismissed, as she severed on the Wednesday afternoon Mickey Mouse Bowling League along with Sheriff Bate's wife. Conflict of interest, they said. My mother was heartbroken. I was too. I wanted my mother to be able to nail the bastard.  Later, the case conveniently became a 'mistrial.' Master Bates left the force and ran a gas station until he died.

Next in line was our beloved Deputy Sheriff Swartz.

Claude had been the  longest on the force, yet a true sweetheart and oh how my momma crushed on him! Thick, wavy silver hair, glittering blue eyes, and a soft southern accent. He was on the beefy side, with little tuffs of silver chest hair peaking out over his uniform collar, which was always loosened around his thick neck.  If you ever got the pleasure of him pulling you over or coming out to your house, he'd blow the car horn, roll down his window and wait for you to come to him.   He would chop on his donuts and sip his coffee, all the while nodding his head and acting like he actually was listening.  After hearing the story, he would look at you and say, "Now it's just too damn cold to get out of this car. Do you really want me to write a report? It will take me half the night and I have to do it in triplicate. Is this a problem that really needs my attention, or can I go back to reading my book?"

Well, when he put it all in perspective like that, not many wanted to disturb his reading pleasure. After all, he was right. It was too cold...

Deputy Funk was third man on the list.

The dark haired "Italian Stallion' thought he was top gun… and had a problem keeping his ‘personal gun’ in his pants. By the time I left town, rumor had it he had impregnated several women with whom he had taken turns living with or at least setting them up in a secure little trailer out west of town, in the back pines.

Of course, who could blame him when his own wife thought a clean house consisted of stacks of newspapers, mounds of dirty clothes and dishes, and garbage bags? Artfully arranged, these items made little mazes to walk through the house. (I know. I babysat ONCE for their three children in that filth pile. The kids would play hide and seek among the waste.) I couldn’t believe he could let his children live in conditions like that.

Deputy Benac was the youngest out of the four deputies.  A homegrown boy, I believe he got all the crap jobs because he worked it all -  day or night. It was like the guy never slept! He always seemed a bit on the grumpy side. Made us wonder if he ever got laid.

The one thing about Benac though, if he caught wind of an illegal keg party by the snake pits, he would drive that huge old police car down a winding truck trail into the woods, issuing the same warning as always. "I know you kids are gonna drink regardless - just don't drive drunk while I’m on shift. I don't want to deal with scraping your ass off the pavement and delivering it to your parents." Then he'd stay, have a brew or two, and go without further interruption.

Last officer on infamous list was my personal favorite (or nemesis – depending on my mood whenever he pulled me over), Deputy Wright.

God love him wherever he is today.

Do you remember the television shows ‘Sheriff Lobo’ or ‘BJ and the Bear?’ There was a deputy on there named Perkins. Well, Deputy Wright was a dead ringer for this guy, both in looks (short, fat, reducing hairline with a cheesy mustache), personality (just damn effin’ goofy) and brains (dumber than dirt!).

EVERYONE SWORE this guy either had a crush on me or he was out to get me. He knew my schedule and would lay in wait, watching for me to come by. He would always pull me over with the lamest of excuses, and stand there to talk with me for like 15 minutes, over trivial matters, personal matters, local gossip – it didn’t matter! He was sweet in an adorable way (all my friends thought I was nuts when I said that), but him pulling me over all the time just to talk was a hassle. When I graduated HS and left town, Wright left to go west months after.

Looking back, I wonder if I should have been brave enough to flirt back at him. Maybe I would have gotten a pair of handcuffs to remember him by.

It’s been 25 years since I lived in that town. A few years ago, I took my mate (who had only been with me a year at that time) north to see where I grew up. We stopped in to visit my best chum and his partner – and within 20 minutes, a police car pulled into his driveway.

With an unreasonable stab of guilt shooting through my gut, I looked at my mate and said, “Whatever it was, I didn’t do it! I haven’t been in town long enough!”

Well, I was right. I was not the one wanted this time. The officer was looking for Chad, the brother of my long time chum. Needed him as a material witness for an upcoming case.

While haggling over contact and other minor law farctions Bart and Scott were always known for, the law officer kept one eye on me the whole time he was conversing. Recognition dawned on his face.

“Well I’ll be damned! You’re George! Chan and Joyce’s youngest one!”

“Yeah. First time back since momma’s funeral back in '89. I live downstate now.”

“Hell, I thought you were in jail all these years.”

“Thanks for embarrassing me, Deputy Benac.”

“My pleasure. And that’s Sheriff Benac to you. Are you staying long?”

“No. Just visiting for the day.”

“Well, that’s good to know. With the Elk festival going on, I want no trouble from you today, got it?” He turned to address my mate. “I know everyone in my county. Ain't seen you before. Might want to reconsider the company you keep. These boys may be more than what you bargained for.”

With an evil eye cast back my way, Sheriff Benac eased his now heavy form back into the patrol car. Scott kept walking forward as the car crept backwards, grinning with his buck teeth and waving like he had no cares in the world, while Bart snuck off to the side of the house, and under the cover of the weeping willow tree, called his brother in warning the Benac was stalking him like prey.

We didn't have any more trouble the rest of the weekend.

I spent the rest of my vacation laying low, drinking in the next county over, chasing elk in the moonlight, reliving my glory days through smoke and song, and trying to convince my  now-leery mate that he hadn’t gotten involved with an ax murderer.

Even now, when ever I hear the sound of the siren, I cringe. Somewhere, deep inside, the child in me knows I'm still guilty of misbehavior.

Till next time - George

PS - if you want to keep current on my health prognosis, please stay in tune with my Facebook  page www.facebook.com/Harrison.Tate

Writers Block: Please Pass the Laxative

Writer's Block?

Sure it happens. But I have this nifty little list of tried and true remedies.

If I anticipate writer's block as one does an oncoming cold, the "wicked wordless wench" can easily be snubbed out within a few days, or, at most, a few weeks. Before long, my fingers would be tap dancing across the keyboard, the writer's block dissolving like the tickle of effervescent bubbles from an Alka Selzer.

Besides, only losers believe in a 'real' Writer's Block, right?

Yeah. Right. Can you say, "time for an attitude adjustment?" In the form of The National Novel Writing Month 2007.

It was the first NaNoWriMo I participated in. I successfully wrote a 54,000 word fan fiction (based on Luke and Noah from 'As The World Turns') which was well received by my legion of readers.

Psyched over my success, I took a well deserved break, deciding after the holidays I’d ‘go for the gold' and get serious about becoming a writer. I remember pausing for a moment. It must have been a jingle bell and not the sound of fate laughing...

January 2008 turned the corner, shining down it's promise of a great new year. I brushed the dust off my keyboard, knowing full well I was taking a giant leap toward my destiny…

And fell flat on my face.

But, hey! No worries. Remember, I have this nifty little list of tried and true remedies.

You see, how to handle writers block depends on certain factors. What day it is, what season of the year, the temperature outside, the time the block takes place, the alignment of the stars, whether it’s a bad hair day.

Also, I go to my pill-by-the-day box, making sure I’ve been taking my medication on a regular bases.

Other weapons at my disposal include exercise, regular scheduled daily 'consitutionals', vitamins/herbs, doing a mindless task like scrubbing the toilet, motivation by listening to uber-cool music, scarfing down comfort food, chain smoke while going over every writing file I had saved on the computer, basking in a week-end long Star Trek/X-files/Queer As Folk marathon, devouring websites on government conspiracies, going on a date with a couple bottles of Captain Morgan, or going over notes on another WIP (which gets the right side of the brain to switch gears, leaving the left side in a stupor for a while.)

Yet, in this instance, my inner Gomer Plye chanted, "Surprise-surprise-surprise." None of the old stand-bys seemed to work.

I redoubled my effort. I endeavored to clear my mind by exercising, faithfully running through a monotonous routine of water aerobics. I listened to multiple motivational CDs, persuading me to breathe deep, center myself and approach this problem with a positive, open mind. I aimed for a goal of writing at least 15 minutes every morning. When that didn’t work, I made an afternoon effort. Failing in that, I struggle for a nighttime attempt.

Realization sank in. Writer's block? Hell, I was in the dark abyss of writer's doom!

The 'thing' dug deep into my psyche, refusing to budge. What had normally worked in the past failed miserably. My muse, held hostage inside an invisible force field, screamed at me in Klingonese for weeks.

Was NaNoWriMo to blame? Was this diabolical organization some kind of sick writer vampire? Did NaNo suck out all my creative juice that used to flow - oh so freely - through my veins?

Would I ever make it back to the world of the aspiring authors? Would I ever reach my nirvana of published authorship? Would Luke and Noah on 'As the World Turns' ever be allowed to kiss on national television without my help?

Time passed. For the next eight months, the writer's block mutated into something my normal 'B movie' life had never experienced. I was lost in a no man's land of deflated plot ideas with no ruby red slippers at my disposal.

Books? I bought the used How To's in bulk orders off Amazon.

Reading fiction in my chosen genre? I devoured m/m e-books by the hundreds.

Workshops? I attended six or seven of them. Some were simple one day events taught over the Internet, allowing me the pleasure of sitting comfortably naked in front of the computer as I learned from the pros. Other weekend seminars required me to drive a distance. With eyes unaccustomed to daylight (or my body to clothing,) I sat on my travel aching derrière, properly attired for attendance, scribbling notes like an extremist author extraordinaire. Later, while surviving on boxed macaroni and cheese, I would reassure myself it was money well spent. I would beat the block and live to tell about it!

By August, I was a basket case. I was desperate to write. Desired to write. Craved, with every fiber in my being, to write.

Yet, the specter of inspiration eluded me at every turn, leaving me in a frigid atmosphere of discouragement. I became inconsolable in my misery, convinced my gallant fight against the dreaded writer's disease was all for naught.

What was the problem? When would it end? And, most importantly, why did this happen to me?

One day, I despondently turned on the computer, wanting to at least live vicariously through other authors who seemed to have no problems. Soon, I began to associate again with GLBT authors and other m/m fan groups (thus cutting down my self-imposed isolation) Not long after, I found victory in the moment I wrote a 500 word response to a blog.

Over the course of four weeks, the familiarity of purpose, perception and perseverance crept back to my parched psyche. My confidence increased. Whatever demon possessed my creative essence and ensnared my muse exploded, liberating my imagination. With a heavy sigh of relief, my writing sphere drew together, healing my mind and my soul.

In retrospect,I still don’t understand the mechanics of what happened. However, during the time of burnout, a combination of these approaches became the wisest thing to do. To let go of the pressure to write, yet continue to stock my brain with healthy, self affirming beatitudes while feasting on the things that would eventually help me find my way back to the path of story telling.

And that nifty little list of tried and true remedies? Taped to the inside of my medicine cabinet door, with a few more items added.

{comic from BlogComic.net. Photos are public domain. Alka Selzer (c)}