Depression: The Prison of Our Own Devising
I haven’t been very active here of late. Even though I’ve managed two posts over the last several days, it was nearly two months between posts before that. There’s a good reason for my lack of productivity. I thought the reason was Donald Trump, but it turns out that I’m probably just depressed. Continue reading
My favorite passage from A Cup of Pending is this one from Chapter 3:
“… and that’s the third great lesson of Job. There’s no justice in a world where God makes bets with the Devil for his own amusement.”
Irreverent, sarcastic, a little caustic – this is the kind of line that defines my writing and my usual demeanor. My second favorite passage comes a little earlier in the same chapter when Blanche offers to pray for Cliff and makes a mockery of Christian charity in the process:
She still had a grip on Cliff’s hand. A crowd had started to gather around them, circling like sharks sensing blood in the water. Blanche looked up toward the ceiling, suspended acoustic tile punctuated with fluorescent light fixtures. So fervent was her gaze Cliff almost believed God must be on the other side of the tiles, hiding in the conduit and duct work, just waiting for the chance to bless a petitioner. Continue reading
The New Poster Girl for White Privilege
Holy Cow! Steve Mnuchin’s new Mrs. hashtags her entire wardrobe as she gets off an Air Force plane. Then, when the social media universe takes exception, she unloads in a snarky ‘bless-her-heart-but-ain’t-she-cute’ rant against a young mother of three for not being privileged enough to pay more in taxes than most people make in a year. She is so deliciously out of touch with reality that I am making her my new fantasy girlfriend. (Apologies to Kelly Rippa. It was bound to happen sometime, Sweetie.) Continue reading
New Flash Fiction
A new bit of flash fiction in dialect. Enjoy!
Mr. Dancin’ Man
by Jonah Gibson
Vassar was in one a them moods where you don’t give him no shit, no matter what he wants to do, on account of he is gonna do it anyways. So what he does is, he takes all my change offa the bar while I’m sittin there watchin an plugs it in the juke they got over in the corner. He presses buttons an that juke starts to playin every weepy, pedal-steel country song there is—least the ones give country a bad name—an the next thing I know he’s got some ole gal out on the dance floor, pushin her around in a passable two step while he grabs himself a big ole handful of ass. Continue reading
Mixed Feelings? Oh, Hell Yes!
Don’t get me wrong. I need book reviews to sell books. That doesn’t mean I need the reviews I get though–and surprise! surprise!–the good ones can be just as bad as the bad ones. Continue reading
When Characters Write Themselves
If you’ve read any of my fiction, you know I have a soft spot for quirky characters–the kind we used to call half a bubble off plum or a couple of bricks shy of a load. These are the most fun to write and perhaps the most instructive, not that anyone is reading my stuff to achieve enlightenment.
In Speedster I have two favorites, Dwayne and T-Ball, a couple of neon-haired slackers who spend their days complaining about the fundamental unfairness of their lives and trying at the same time to achieve fairly lofty goals without putting in any effort. Much like real life, the smarter one, T-Ball, is continually over-ridden by the loud one, Dwayne, whose loutish ignorance is exceeded only by his abiding self-confidence. I imagine that T-Ball’s daily trials are very similar to those of the current crop of staffers and hanger’s on in the White House. I can sympathize. Continue reading
Weapons of Choice
I just switched cable companies, and am saving enough money on my monthly bill to subscribe to HBO again. I haven’t had HBO for several years and was woefully behind on Game of Thrones. Now I’m bingeing on season four, which as you may know, contains a lot of defining moments. My favorite by far is the death of King Joffrey at his wedding.
As TV deaths go, it was pretty satisfying. Not perfect, mind you. I would have made it bloodier, more painful, and longer. Let’s face it, the little shit had it coming. Still, it was good enough to get me thinking about how I kill characters in my books. Continue reading
Navigating a Tragic Love Life
I’ve been stood up more than my fair share of times. I don’t know why this should be, but my stats are undeniable.
This all started when I was in high school more than half a century ago. I arranged a date with a cute little slip of a blond from the neighboring village of St. Henry, Ohio. I had in common with the girl, whose name is long lost to history, that we both played saxophone in our respective high-school marching bands.
It was my first bona fide date in the sense that I’d manned up through my own force of will, asked her out in a straightforward manner without the usual teenage machinations and guile, and she had accepted in spite of already knowing what I looked like, an obvious fact to me since I was standing in front of her when she said yes. It was a pretty satisfying experience up to this point. Continue reading
Click on the image for more – including sample scene
Work in Progress
Look for it this summer.
Meanwhile – a little teaser to whet your appetite!
So this is what I’ve got going on at my house. Not fully formed yet, but gathering steam in my head. Click the cover image for a detailed description and a sample scene. Fill out a form to get on my mailing list while you’re at it. (Over at the top of the right hand side-bar) That way you’ll get progress updates and new developments as they happen. It will be a lot like living at my place, but you never have to see me in my underwear.
From A to Zoe by Marie-Jo Fortis
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
I loved this little book. It lacks pretension. It’s self-aware without being self-absorbed—artsy without the fartsy. It’s beautiful with a healthy dose of the real—like Mona Lisa with a gap-tooth grin or The Birth of Venus with a mastectomy scar.
Zoe Zimmerman is a modern girl, a writer trying to slip the bonds of her small-town past in the middle of a seedy Manhattan that just doesn’t give a damn, except sporadically, and then just enough to keep our girl plodding on. I’ve known Zoes in my life. Mostly I try to avoid them. They are, in the parlance of my adopted Southland, hot messes. They are hard to live with, but easy to love. They are too interesting for their own good. Continue reading