You may not know this about me, but I can be kind of a dick.
Keep that in mind if you decide to email me promises of wealth beyond my imagination, supplied by the overthrown Prince of a war-ravaged country or by Nigerian/Sudanese/Ugandan dissidents. You may not like how the conversation goes.
If anyone what “foufoff” means, please let me know.
Two years. Seven months. Fifteen days.
That’s how long it’s been since I’ve posted anything on what used to be my favorite place in the world. Life has a funny way of pulling your attention elsewhere, whether you like it or not.
What I didn’t know before I began writing was that life has always had its own plan for me. That plan is to be what I call “Keeper of the Pain.” Everyone’s pain. I have been destined to hold everyone together while they fall apart, my own wants and needs be damned. I tempted fate when I stepped away from that role to indulge in something for myself- my writing. I looked away for what felt like a moment and when I looked back, my life was in flames.
It has taken me two years, seven months and fifteen days to gain control of that fire, but it is far from extinguished. My role as Keeper of the Pain burns on.
The struggle I face is incorporating my own wants, needs and pain into the firestorm of problems that I deal with daily. This blog, I hope, will become a firestop- a small, controlled burn to keep the larger fires from raging out of control, consuming me once more.
I hope to light a fire of my own.
By now everyone in the free world has heard of Republican Senator Tom Cotton’s open letter to Iran’s Leaders. If you haven’t, you can view it here. I am also certain that Americans everywhere have already divided into their personal political camps over the matter.
The point of this blog is not to discuss my political views or to pontificate as to whether I am anti or pro anything. Today’s blog is about what it means to be a good American, and how with the crafting of one letter, Senator Tom Cotton and forty-six of his Republican cronies fell woefully short of that ideal. (more…)
Most days I keep my boredom at bay by adding cartoon characters or celebrities I’ve never met to my phone’s contact list, or by pranking unsuspecting people who happen to incorrectly dial my cellphone number. Then there are days when the boredom is too much and I share my pain by sending random and nonsensical texts to the poor souls who happen to know me.
Featured here are the best responses to the inane chatter that escapes my head on a daily basis: (more…)
What’s the slushpile, you ask? The slushpile, my friends, is the virtual trash bin where your manuscript lands the moment a prospective agent determines it is not yet ready for publication. Believe me, after all your hard work this is no place you want to be.
So how do you avoid the slushpile? Read widely? Write often? Find yourself a solid writers’ group?
Hell no! You do it by following my advice, of course! I’ve spent the past year creating a collection of books designed to help would-be authors navigate their way through the jungle that is the publishing world. Choose from the following: (more…)
Long before I became a New Englander I was a native of the south, specifically southern Florida. And as anyone who’s either lived in or even just visited the south can attest, no one throws a party better than a southerner (back me up here, Dayton). Because in the south a party isn’t just a party- it’s a balls-out drunken feeding frenzy of Bacchanalian proportion. I blame the heat.
It should come as no surprise that the southern party of the year, Mardi Gras, is celebrated in the party Mecca better known as New Orleans, Louisiana. French for “Fat Tuesday,” Mardi Gras reflects the practice of the last night of eating richer, fatty foods before the ritual fasting of the Lenten season.
Fat Tuesday, my friends, just happens to be today. (more…)