“You know, I like pretty much everything you write.”
“Is that right? Pretty much, huh?”
“Well, there was one story of yours I read … ” She shakes her head. “I just didn’t understand it. It was about tacos or something … some girls took you to dinner … I just didn’t follow it.”
“Oh yeah, some friends of mine took me out on my birthday – with all that was going on, I wouldn’t have had a birthday last year if it wasn’t for them – and we went to Manny’s on Southwest Boulevard. They’re all really beautiful girls and when we pulled into the parking lot, some working guys in a window really took notice of them. They were staring and pointing. One of the girls who is really tiny but gorgeous stopped and stared back, then sort of jumped at them. When we got inside, they wouldn’t look at her. They wouldn’t say a word. Here was this itty-bitty thing, frail arms, purple high heels, and she’d beaten these guys back with a little body gesture. I thought it was a profound victory for her – an example that beauty can be a burden.”
“Yeah, I didn’t follow it. I like it better when you write about your kids.”
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Tags: Conversations
Surprise has been the common reaction to my work lately. Given the inevitable end to my marriage, as much as I would like, I can’t deny that my work has been impacted. Writing is thinking, as far as I have learned in the long hours I’ve spent holding hands in public and under the table with the written word. When something happens to you that changes the way you feel about people and the way the world comes to you – let’s call it perception – then it’s bound to show in your creative work.
I guess the nature of the posts here have always given away what’s going on in my life. If you know me or you’ve read material here before, you know writing is my way of dealing with what happens to me – and I usually do it with absolute honesty. I’ve done less and less writing the last few weeks. I’ve thought about taking this blog down, not for privacy sake, but because the subject matter might present me as depressed or distressed – a dark contrast to what I’ve written before. A fear I have is that a potential client would look through this material and a person who was once a talented writer has turned to venting online about all the shitty things that have happened to him. (Once there was a certain grace I expected of my work. As recent as three months ago, the word shit would have never appeared on this blog. Some posts might be considered shit by some. Who knows? But it wouldn’t have been me posting it outright. That in itself is a change.” Read the rest of this entry »
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Tags: Vent
This is short character study I wrote after a speaking voice came to me during a recent free-writing session. This is the first I’ve published. More might appear as posts as I draw closer to the novel ledge.
I have heard people say that everyone has a story to tell. I may be the exception to that rule. I have nothing to say about my life or the lives of the people living around me in these townhouses. All of them look the same, the people more so than the houses. Quaint and beige. In their 60s and 70s. I am 63 years old. I get the paper about 5:30 or whenever the paper boy throws it in the drive, which lately has been past 6 during the week and on weekends, close to 6:30. When I’m done reading or sometimes if I’m not – if it’s a really engrossing paper but it’s getting close for to time for the kids to make it down to the bus stop – I”ll fold it over the arm of the chair and water my plants in the pot on the front stoop. The neighborhood kids have caused me too many interruptions. I like to wear my sandals with socks, which draws hysterics from the boys who walk by under the chestnuts to the stop sign and can’t find something more interesting along the way. They point and me say things they don’t think I can hear behind my back. Read the rest of this entry »
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Tags: Fiction
Due north from the manicured office complexes on Kansas City Road is a finger nail-bitten drinking establishment called Bar. Not The Bar or Bar North. Just Bar. And I love it for that. Inside, the walls are covered with wood paneling. The tile, the pool table and the dart board are what you might find in your neighbor’s basement. In the summer, you can sit out on a wooden deck that looks like it was crafted on a long working Saturday by a weekend handyman, probably the owner – or the owner and his best friend. Someone who owes him a favor. You can sit at the wrought iron tables and look over the edge at a blue brick auto repair shop or the trains that drag past just gaining there steam, pulling long cars tagged by grafittists. And the engineers go by watching for pretty women and maybe to tug on the whistle if you acknowlege them. I’ve seen it happen. This seems a strange place to write poetry, but it’s as good as any. Better probably.
BLUES FROM BAR
I hadn’t planned on it.
An open night
with no plans
that happened to be payday,
so I took what money was left
from the week before,
just a few singles,
and sank them into wheat. Read the rest of this entry »
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Tags: Poetry
My apologies for not writing more this week. I think this is the most time I’ve let pass without making a post since the site sputtered to a start last year. Besides the normal distractions, I’ve had my hands full recently with a freelance web copy project. I’ve been commissioned to write site content for Jackson’s Service Station in Edwardsville, Kan. And, for the first time in my career, I’m doing it for trade. My payment is going to be a tire rotation and the owner, Gary Jackson, has agreed to help me score a good deal on new tires when I need them. Money was on the table but it makes a much better story if some Goodyears are involved, don’t you think?
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Tags: Business
