Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
It’s just like, suddenly, a volcano erupts. Words flow into my mind, demanding to be put down. All is seen and heard, and the path ahead is clear. Focus and concentration swell like a romantic song, and the urge to write is a fire. An internal little engine begins chugging, I must do it, I must do it, I must write, I must get it done. And, yeah, the mixed metaphors are appropriate to convey the complexities.
Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.
Catvention (catfinition): 1. an agreement among felines about the protocols regarding eating, sleeping, washing, and other daily activities; 2. a large assembly of felines; 3. inventions made to improve cats’ lives.
It’s a joy when a song is out there that satisfies on several levels. It’s even better when several performers or musical groups cover it, and you find that you can listen to these versions and like them all, but for slightly different reasons.
That’s the case with today’s songs. My dreams last night ended with me awakening to this song, “Take Me to the River.” My brain was originally streaming Al Green’s version. I mean, it’s Al Green. But I drifted to the Talking Heads’ take on it, and that stayed with me as I walked and got into the writing mood.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6ar2VHW1i2w
But, just in case, here’s Al Green performing, with a few guests. I enjoy the different lyrics from the Heads’ version.
I’ve been writing well. When I say that, I mean that word counts are okay, and I’m satisfied with the general flow and output.
But I’ve been feeling my way through the dark. I’m at a pivot point. Exciting stuff has happened. Tension has been created. Now I’m pivoting to a new part of the arc to bridge what has happened with what’s going to happen. I was forced to pause to come up with minor characters’ names, define them, and address a few plot issues. So it was slow writing, like traffic out of L.A. on Labor Day weekend slow.
Then there is today. Walking along, thinking about where I’d stopped writing, and where I wanted to resume, the writing issues I’ve been working on all broke free. My writing exploded with a geyser of words that would make Old Faithful proud. I had to rush into the coffee shop, set up and get going with mind-blowing intensity. As always, my typing speed and thinking speed struggled to keep up with my writing speed. I end up typing as fast as I can, and then pausing, fixing some matters, reviewing what’s been written, and then jumping back onto the word train.
I’ve been doing small chores around the home, like repairing and painting posts, and repairing crawl space vents. I believe this manual labor freed and stimulated my creative side. I’ve always noticed that when I need to think more deeply to resolve something, I achieve more success by working on things that don’t take much thinking.
Done writing like crazy for today. What a session. It’s days like these that make writing so addictive. What a drug. The rest of the world seems so mundane as I come down from my high.
Yeah, I’m coming out, confessing some sins. Nothing major.
I like spying on people. I haven’t done any peeping tom sort of thing, no. I like sitting back at the cafe and observing exchanges, body language and expression. I eavesdrop when I can. I like looking at the books they carry to see what they’re reading.
In check-out lines at grocery stores and supermarkets, I eyeball their shopping cart contents to see if they bought the same things as me, and what they bought that I considered, or should be considering. Sometimes the stuff I see in their cart make me wonder, “What the hell are you thinking?” I hope, from quantities being purchased, and the items, that they’re having a party, and inviting others to eat all that junk they’re buying. One curiosity that I’ve noticed is that stores are now full of ice cream novelties, but I rarely see them in shopping carts. I think those are an item that we eschew buying when we’re shopping, and run out to get late at night, when fewer people are around, so we can hurry in, furtively purchase them, and then rush home and devour them.
Purses intrigue. They’re usually pretty big. When someone has a small purse, I think, “Does that work?” When women open their purses, I peer in, slightly hoping that I’ll see them carrying a gun or something else that seems interesting or unusual. Most purses I’ve looked into are dark, cluttered messes, though. I usually don’t see much beyond keys, wallets, check books, money, notes and receipts. Oh yeah, tissues, gum, and cough drop. Sometimes they’ll have a cookie, cracker, or piece of fruit.
Of course, we’re all spies at restaurants, peering over at other people’s tables to see what they’re eating. Oh, is that what I ordered? is often asked. But sometimes, I lament, oh, I should’ve ordered that. Sometimes I think, geez, I’m glad I didn’t order that.
Thanks to my wife, I now also check out shoes. Shopping with her has made me more aware of shoes. It’s not a foot fetish, but a curiosity. I’m conservative when it comes to footwear. I have a rule that I don’t wear tennis or running shoes with jeans or long pants, and I don’t don Saddle Oxfords or penny loafers with my shorts. Some people’s choices startle me, but I’m also envious that they’ll put things like that on their feet. What courage…or insanity.
I draw the line at tall, stiletto heels. They look insanely uncomfortable. I’m constantly irked by television shows and movies that feature a female detective doing a foot chase in very high heels, whether they’re boots, sandals, or fancy dress shoes. I just haven’t seen many women run fast in those in, quote, real life. My wife always says, “If women need to run and they’re in shoes like that, they’ll take them off.”
So, yeah, coming out. Pretty boring, and pretty average. That’s me. Coming out average. You should see my shopping cart.
Little Free Libraries are a wonderful idea. They started in two thousand nine, in Hudson, Wisconsin, when Todd Bol built the first one.
I’ve found seven in Ashland. I enjoy finding them. They’re all beautifully done little buildings on a post, and usually brightly colored, with a glass door on the front. In conjunction with Bol’s original vision, they resemble little school houses. Once found, they must be explored. Sometimes notes are attached.
Transitioning to another idea I like, September 18 was Hideabook day. It’s a thing Goodreads came up with to celebrate ten years of being Goodreads. Coupling my writing and publishing with marketing, Hideabook day, and Little Free Libraries, I bought seven copies of the paperback book version of “Life Lessons with Savanna,” signed them, and put them in the Little Free Libraries around town. I checked two today, and those copies were gone.
I hope people find and enjoy them all.
The Ginger Blade wanted out last night. He’s a cat; he’s young; they go out at night.
As I let him out the door, he paused and looked at me over his shoulder. “I’ll be back,” he said. Then, he trotted into the darkness.
From that streamed the music for today. Thinking of Papi’s words, my mind connected with a nineteen sixty-eight Simon and Garfunkel hit. “Mrs Robinson” was on the album “Bookends,” but is probably best known for its inclusion in the movie, “The Graduate.” When Papi told me, “I’ll be back,” I started singing, “Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio? Our nation turns its lonely eyes on you.”
I wonder at what age people ask, “What movie? What song? Who is Simon and Garfunkel? Who is Joe DiMaggio? Who is Papi? Is he the Ginger Blade?”
Well, they can all just go google themselves.
I confess: I spy on people. Especially when they have books. I want to see what they’re reading.
The woman next to me in the coffee shop has the book, “Men Explaining Things to Me,” on her table. I want to ask her, “Do you want me to explain that book?” I thought it would be funny, right? She – and other women with this book – probably have never heard that joke before.
I decided not to say it to her, mostly because I like living. I think a joke like that one could be hazardous to my longevity.
Sara Fischer had a surprising article over on Axios.com:
“What?” I asked myself. People don’t like pop-up ads and pre-rolls? Bullshit. Dismissive of this headline, I read the article.
Sara Fischer claims that Morning Consult did research, and discovered that surveys show that seventy-two percent of U.S. adults don’t like pop-up ads.
It’s more fake news, I suspect.
I don’t know anyone who dislikes pop-up ads. I love them, myself. Pop-up ads are technology’s way of saying, “Hey, relax. Take a break.” They stop me from getting too involved in stories by preventing me from immediately reading the articles, clicking on links, and searching for more information to vet the story.
Pop-up ads are a blessing, and should be embraced as such. Just think of how much more shit you could be reading and doing on the web, were it not for pop-up ads saving you.
Michael Seidel, writer 