Author: Michael Seidel

Science fiction, fantasy, and mystery writer. Singer (sorry, no shows) & nudist (in my home). Beer, cat, cheese, coffee, pie and wine friend. Left IBM and Silicon Valley for the southern Oregon life but I miss the ocean. We're too far inland. Gotta move.

The Car Colors

Walking today, I passed a red car. My thoughts were drifting, and seeing the red car, I thought, I’ve never owned a red car.

Dad had owned a red Thunderbird. That began a stream of recollections about Dad’s cars. He’d owned a turquoise Thunderbird (with matching interior), a maroon Monte Carlo (also with matching interior), beige Corvette and a blue Corvette (guess what color their interiors were?), and a white Chevy Impala, along with a white Thunderbird. Both of the white cars had red interiors.

I thought, what an eclectic mix. But then I reviewed some of my car colors. I’d had a copper Camaro (black interior) and brown Firebird (with a tan interior), a green Mercedes (with matching interior), a white BMW (blue interior), silver Audi (gray interior), orange Porsche (brown and black interior), a silver RX-7 with a red interior, a blue RX-7 with a brown interior, and a black RX-7 with a black interior.

In each case, I’d not consciously decided on a color. It was more of a decision, this is the car for me.

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Wednesday’s Theme Music

Today’s song, “Going Down/Love In An Elevator,” came out in 1989. I was stationed in Germany with the USAF when it was released. It immediately became a unit favorite.

The album, Pump, was a damn good Aerosmith album, equal to the task for rocking old rockers and stimulating some new ones to join the ranks.

 

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Hello, August

Hey, all you hep writers out there in writing land. Hope this post finds you in the writing groove on this first day of the eighth month of the eighteenth year of this new century.

When does this stop being the new century? It’s still a young century as the age of centuries go, just in its teens, which could be why it’s rebelling against everything and challenging every word. Just old enough to vote in some places, old enough to marry, depending upon where you live, and not old enough to drink in some areas, the century brings to mind Alice Cooper’s song, “I’m Eighteen.”

I got a Baby’s brain and an old man’s heart
Took eighteen years to get this far
Don’t always know what I’m talkin’ about
Feels like I’m livin in the middle of doubt
Cause I’m Eighteen
I get confused every day
Eighteen
I just don’t know what to say
Eighteen
I gotta get away

h/t to Genius.com

Sure sounds like this year and century, doesn’t it?

I sometimes feel that I’m eighteen as I go through my writing processes. Each writing session offers its own challenges and rewards. When I measure it all, I hope the results are worth it, but there are times, man, there are times when confused, disparaging whispers echo in the chasms of my mind.

I prevail, in the same fashion as most writers, by venting, raging, sulking, drinking, reading, shrugging, and writing, and then writing more. I often wonder what I’d be like had I not heard the writing call, but then, I wonder about that with every area of my life. What if I’d not married the woman that I did, or what if I hadn’t joined the military, and so on, as billions upon billions of people have done.

In the end, August of 2018 feels a lot like January of 2018, a hopeful period that also looks daunting.

Time to write like it’s 1999.

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Floofbeard

Floofbeard (flooffinition) – an accumulation of hair on your face from your pet’s demonstrations of affection.

In use: “Quinn leaped up onto Michael’s lap and then marched straight up to Michael’s face. After mewing a greeting, Quinn began purring, rubbing his face against Michael’s cheeks and chin, and nipping Michael’s chin and nose. Within seconds, Michael had acquired a floofbeard.”

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Tuesday’s Theme Music

Jeff Healey was another performer who died too young. Forty-one when he passed away from cancer, he started playing guitar when he was very young, and achieved fame, recognition, and commercial success for his skills.

I came across two of his albums in my CD collection the other day. From that, I started streaming Healey’s cover of “While My Guitar Gently Weeps” as I walked through the smoky heat. The original song, as recorded by the Beatles (with Eric Clapton) is a favorite song of mine. Prince’s performance of the solo at the 2004 Rock and Roll Hall of Fame ceremonies still mesmerizes me.

So, pick any of those, or any of the many other covers of the song, as today’s theme music. I’m staying with Healey for today.

 

 

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Furtankerous

Furtankerous (catfinition) – the irritation felt when cleaning up fur or clumps of fur.

In use: “As she bent to pick up yet another small clump of fur, her furtankerous mood burst into anger.”

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The Witch Dream

I caught what seemed to be a flash, white and gold, on the right side of my vision’s edge.

Answering some instinct, I didn’t move. A woman’s head filled my vision. She said, “I showed you mine, now you show me yours, you show me yours, you show me yours.”

I can’t describe her face or voice. Each evaded me, but I knew she was a witch. I knew that I was discovering something that was ending that had been going on, that she wasn’t talking to me, and that she was talking about power. She’d shown someone her power, and now she wanted their power shown.

I saw then that she was speaking to angels in white, but the angels had monkey faces. They reminded me of the flying monkeys in the Wizard of Oz, except their faces were alabaster white.

I wasn’t supposed to see or hear any of this. Knowing that I had, the witch vanished and the angels flew. I think someone might have said, “Hide.” Turning to look at that moment, I caught a fleeting glimpse of the angels going across grass and around trees, like a park, and then they were gone. They’d been very small, like dolls.

As I puzzled this, I heard a male voice say, “The healing angel wants you to know that you were heard.”

I awoke.

 

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Monday’s Theme Music

Today’s music is “In My Blood” by Shawn Mendes. It was released this year, 2018.

I’d been thinking about the work left in my series, Incomplete States, just to finish the beta edition, and then the revisions and editing left to take it to publication. I was also thinking that it has a strong chance of being read by few to no people. With all that to do, and other writing projects and life opportunities in limbo while I’m working on it, I thought, why not give up? Give up writing this series, and write something simpler and smaller. Why, in fact, write at all, with the odds so heavy against me?

Then the lyrics from “In My Blood” streamed in.

Help me, it’s like the walls are caving in
Sometimes I feel like giving up
No medicine is strong enough
Someone help me
I’m crawling in my skin
Sometimes I feel like giving up
But I just can’t

It isn’t in my blood
It isn’t in my blood

h/t to genius.com

Researching the song, I discovered that Mendes had written it in response to his struggles with anxiety disorder. Once again, as often happens, I became revitalized by reading of others who struggled and succeeded. If they made it, so can I.

So, thank you, Shawn Mendes.

 

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