I've Really Dropped the Ball

...writing wise.

I stopped writing again. Which doesn't really surprise me. I know me. I've only been able to produce consistently when I have a deadline. A deadline that isn't self enforced, one that has farther reaching consequences than "it's not done." Like, bad grades, or not getting paid. That sort of thing. I had about four chapters plus the prologue of The Reunion Tour when the subject matter stopped appealing to me. And I put it aside. Maybe to be revisited, maybe not.

I mention this today because I had a really great idea as I drifted to sleep last night...and damn it all to hell if I can remember it this morning. I spent most of my morning commute trying to piece it back together. I'm only around the edges of it and it's frustrating as hell. Especially since it's a mystery, or at the very least a thriller (the difference between them are pretty subtle yet pretty wide at the same time, don't you think? In most thrillers you know who did it...) and it's that damn "hook" I can't remember. The protagonist I have. In fact, I'm writing down a character outline/sheet so I can come back to him once I remember the hook, or if I come up with a new plot that fits.

Am I really a writer if I don't write? I'm not even talked about being published in any form, even self publishing. Or am I simply yet another idea man with a distinct motivational problem and a tendency towards procrastination and laziness.

If I get this idea back...I may try to do the "minimum word a day" deadline trick again. Maybe get The Queen to poke and prod me or something.

I'd love to have a work published. But I'd also be as pleased to complete a novel, even if it never sees mass printing. What's the saying? Everybody has one great novel in them? Something like that. I believe that.

Oh hey, good old mate David thinks my nostalgia fest about Kids Shows last Friday was deserving of mention in his Posts of the Day. So, I've got that.

Gotta Go Back In Time...

Title's just for you, Ben.

So, anyone ever ask you "if you could go back in time and change something about yourself or something that happened to you, would you? And what would you do?" Sure you have. I used to think I wouldn't do a damn thing. Leave well enough alone. Who knows what I'd screw up.

Lately, though, I've come to realize that I would do one thing. One thing only. And it might only effect a few things in my life, but it probably would have made things much easier for me as a teenager, especially in my latter days of high school.

I'd go back and tell my younger self what I've come to realize about my nature: I'm creative. Or, more specifically, I have a desire to be creative.

Seems kind of odd, right? Well, let me elaborate a bit. From like, third grade (maybe fourth) on, I was a musician. I started playing the trombone. Got relatively good at it. Didn't hurt that there was a significant lack of trombone players in my area so I was usually the only one, or one of two.

By the time I hit high school, though, other creative bugs hit me. I didn't really start exploring them until later, specifically my senior year. But they caused all kinds of headaches. But I wanted to try acting out...which caused friction with my music teacher.

Now, I can look back and see that he saw massive potential in me musically that was being wasted because I split my time. But back then, I was a head strong kid who wanted to do what he wanted to do.

So, I'd go back and tell that kid, "there's nothing wrong with being creative in multiple media...but you should express that to others." Like my music teacher. Maybe come to a better understanding with him...maybe find a way to do both in equal time. At least help him realize that I wasn't trying to be an unmotivated piece of crap, I simply couldn't be held to one medium of creativity. I could have avoided what turned in to a real emotional tug of war that year.

So, whenever Doc Brown finishes up that Delorean, I'll know what I'll be doing.

David's Weekend Wandering

So David McMahon is now asking weekly questions. I've missed all of them up to now, but as I need inspirado, I'll answer the call. The call being his question. He didn't actually call me. He doesn't know my number. He calls it "Weekend Wandering." I thought it should be Wondering. But I'm not David. I'm more like a much shorter Goliath. With better table manners. And not biblical. Yet.

And the question is: Hollywood's knocking on your door, to offer you top billing in a studio blockbuster, alongside any movie star of your choice. Whom do you choose?

Wow, what a question for a pop culture junkie like myself. In the not too distant past, I'd probably have said Harrison Ford. The man is Indiana Jones and Han Solo for crying out loud. Not to mention playing Jack Ryan on screen more than any other actor. But alas, that ship has probably sailed, and since the question doesn't actually say what kind of blockbuster it is, I'll have to go another route, and pick who is probably my current favorite actor:

Matt Damon.

Oh yes, I'd make people forget all about that Affleck (AFLAC!) guy. Matt and Ben, nay, Matt and Bart. I'd be the Hutch to his Starsky. The Cash to his Tango. The Hooch to his Turner...no, wait, that's not very flattering.

Well, that was fun. While I have you, and while we're talking about stuff David is doing...

David is also going out of his way to help out fledgling writers with an ongoing series of postings entitled "Telling Write From Wrong." That man never met a homonym he didn't like. Anyway, ask him questions about writing, and he'll give you advice. Simple enough. And he's not doing it as a shameless ploy like I would be, so that's a plus on his side. Go have a looksie.

Drove the Chevy to the levy...

So, Jessie implored me to write something, because she was sick of seeing how Rob Zombie was about to rape my childhood. Which, incidentally, based on all the reviews I've seen, he did. Anyway, here's what I got.

I'm sorry I've been remiss in my writing lately. I'd like to tell you that it's because it's the beginning of the school year and work is hectic. Which it is, but that's not the reason.

I'm simply tapped.

I sat here for a good half hour, surfing the net, trying to find something to steal...er, I mean, inspiration, and I got nothing. All I have to write about is the fact that right now I have nothing I want to write about. When you doubt your strengths you give strength to your doubts. Thanks Mystery Men.

I think that's half the reason I started doing all those interviews. Without them, I'd have a whole lotta nothing. I need to find some inspirado, and quick.

Still Here

I don't have much to say. Other than the fact that I'm mighty intimidated by the literary submission process and I'm not even halfway done yet, I'm still plugging along. I'm following David's advice (not to me, though, saw it elsewhere, probably Carol's place) to write 300 words a day, and have it add up. I think I'm averaging about 800, though.

Of course, now I'm no longer scared of the story going nowhere, I'm now scared that I'll invest all this time on this for nothing. I'm like George McFly.

Chapter 3

Or, the last one you get for free. This one is probably more in need of edits than the other one. At least, I've made more edits to it in the course of writing it already.

Chapter 3

It had been a long day, and Jason was enjoying watching his six year old play in the local playground. Alex was enamored of the slide, and equally enamored of having his father watch as he whizzed down the plastic contraption. “Daddy! Daddy! Look!” he’d call, each and every time. Jason would wave, and down Alex would go with a “Weeee!” or a giggling laugh, and then the process would repeat.

The repetition was welcome, though, as it gave Jason time to think about everything. Brian’s complete acquiescence to Bobby’s overtures had given him pause. He hadn’t counted on that one at all, and it had thrown him for a total loop. Most of his bitterness over the years was for how Brian was treated. Now, Brian didn’t seem to even care anymore. That made it incredibly hard for Jason to continue to feel the same way.

Alex called out again, and Jason waved and smiled. Down the slide went Alex, and Jason smiled. Then it hit him. It wasn’t any sense of anger or bitterness that was ultimately holding him back. He had become a different person. He wasn’t rock guitarist Jason Henneman anymore. He was Alex Hennemans’s father. He was holding out because he didn’t want to go on tour and be away from his son.

Kicking up sand in his wake, Alex came running over to the bench, seemingly done with the slide. “Daddy,” he asked, “can we get ice cream now?” Jason smiled and stood up.

“Sure, buddy,” he said, taking his son’s hand, “just don’t tell Mommy we had ice cream before dinner.” They left the park, heading towards the parking lot and the car. Jason had a hard time keeping up with his son, who was still worked up from the playground. They didn’t talk much after Jason started driving to the local ice cream parlor; mostly because Alex was far more interested in changing the radio station every couple of seconds. A snippet of sound caught Jason’s attention. “Hang on, Alex, Daddy wants to hear something,” he said as he flipped the radio dial back to the station Alex had flown by.

“…rumor, really, but with the poor sales of ‘Out of the Box,’ Paige has really been hinting at a possible reunion tour this summer,” the DJ was saying.

“Well, I’m sure he’d love to get Morning Star on the road again,” said the other DJ, as Jason realized this was the drive-time radio show of the popular local rock station, ‘On the Road with Bob and Mike, “those guys were huge when they broke up. But I think the real question is, will it really be Morning Star, or half of the old band? I don’t know what Brian O’Shea thinks about this, but I’ve seen Jason Henneman around, and he’s not exactly Bobby Paige’s biggest fan these days.” Making a turn, Jason groaned slightly.

“Which brings up another point, Mike, that’s been talked about since Morning Star broke up…does Henneman even want to play in a band anymore? Most people were quite surprised when he didn’t immediately show back up on the scene with a new band like Paige did, since most people considered him the best of the bunch. Plus, beyond some local shows where he plays blues standards, he’s been as low key as you can get.”

“Maybe we should get our producers to get Henneman on the show, or even O’Shea. Wouldn’t that be great, get their takes before anything even breaks? We should have their contact numbers since we sponsored that last charity benefit, right?”

“Yeah, let’s get someone on that. I’ll tell you what, though, I know I’d love to see them play ‘Cold Hard Night’ or ‘Raw’ again.”

“You’re aren’t alone, Bob. And on that note, here’s ‘Cold Hard Night’, from 1995’s ‘Sweat Socks.’ Jason grunted and switched the channel to the first preset, none too anxious to hear any Morning Star songs.

“You can find something you want to listen to, buddy,” he said, looking at his son briefly, “but we’re almost to the ice cream shop.”

“They were talking about you, Daddy!” Alex chirped. “Jason Hennemanan. That’s you, Jason.”

“That’s ‘Daddy’ to you, kiddo. And our name is Henneman, not Hennemanan.”

“That’s what I said, Daddy. Henneman-anan,” he said, grinning widely. Jason chuckled, and turned his car in to the parking lot of the ice cream parlor. “What were they saying about you, Daddy?”

Jason found a spot, and put the car in to park. “They were wondering if I was going to play music again.” He reached over and unbuckled his son’s seatbelt. “Come on, out of the car.” He got out and went around to where Alex was only then opening the door. He took his son by the hand and closed the door behind him, walking towards the parlor door.

“Why wouldn’t you play music again, Daddy?” Alex said with a plaintive look on his face. Jason sighed inwardly as he held the door open for his son. He secretly wished this whole situation could be as easy as it was in little Alex’s mind. As far as he was concerned, his dad was a rock star. There was no decision to be made, no wondering if it was really something a responsible family man would do, no speculation on whether or not he could actually get his thirty-five year old body ready for the grind of a tour. Daddy was a rock star, and that’s all there was to it.

As he sat and watched his son work his particular magic on a fudge ripple cone, he thought back to how easy things were eighteen years ago when he and Bobby had first formed the band. Though back then they had called themselves The Four Cylinders. Jason wasn’t even remotely thinking about kids. Hell, he was a kid, about to graduate high school. He wasn’t looking down the road to eight years later when the band would implode, and he would meet Ann a few weeks later. In fact, he was only looking forward to shredding on stage and meeting girls.

By the time his reverie of the past was broken, he had Alex back to the house. As they entered, Alex ran up to his mother. “Guess what Mommy! Daddy’s a rock star!”

“Is he now,” she asked, a grin on her face.

“Yeah, and we had ice cream!”

Jason groaned and to avoid his wife’s disapproving eyes, looked down at Alex. “You traitor.”

My Scare

I don't have much else to say today, so I'll tell you guys about my little scare last night.

I contacted an old friend of mine, Nat, for some research. See, he's on tour right now (www.cinderroadmusic.com) and I asked for an idea of the daily routine. When I told him why, he casually remarked, "you should check out this book..."

I nearly crapped my pants as a feeling of "oh here we go again" dread hit me. That'd be like the tenth time I've started a story only to find the exact idea has been used already. Further compounding the problem was that Nat didn't have the title of the book correct. So I couldn't look in to it better. I sent a desperate email back to him, hoping he could get a handle on what the title was. To his credit, even though I'm pretty sure he had a show last night, he remembered what it was and sent me the title late last night.

The book he was talking about was Too Much, Too Late, by Marc Spitz. I had read his first novel, How Soon is Never? which I highly recommend, about an aging music journalist obsessed with reuniting The Smiths. After looking at the description, I breathed a sigh of relief. Sort of the same concept, but not really. The band in that book were "never were's" that get an inexplicable resurgence from, of all things, a blogosphere movement.

I think we may deal with some similar issues, but I think I'll be dealing with them in an entirely different way, especially if his style is anything like How Soon is Never?

So, with a sigh of relief, I soldier on.

Open Road

So, while I feel pretty good about my current writing project, there's a very scary aspect about the whole thing...

I haven't the slightest clue where it's going.

Seriously. Not a clue. I have an idea what's going to happen in general, but not where it's going.

I find this to be not only frightening, but downright dangerous for my style...this is one of the reasons why I put projects on the back burner. I have ideas, but no middle and no end. Now, I have a middle, I've started writing the beginning to get to that middle, but no clue what to do from there. I'm hoping it flows from the story as I get to the meat and potatoes, but that's a far away horizon right now.

Felt like sharing my crippling fear.

Chapter 2

Alright then, here's Chapter 2. I realize that I'm writing these somewhat short, but if James Patterson can get away with it...

Anyway, I probably wont post up whole sections anymore, only samples every once in awhile. I mean, if I put up too much, that sort of negates the whole purpose in my mind. I realize that not that many people read this space, but still. Plus, it stretches out the page, and it really kind of detracts from what I really want to do here. But that's a me issue. Here we go.

Chapter 2

Jason watched Brian light up his fifth cigarette in half an hour, and gave him a rueful look. “You’re going to kill yourself before you even get a chance to go back on the road again. You know that, right?”

“Aw, bite me, Jas. My nerves aren’t what they used to be.” He blew out smoke towards the ceiling and followed the stream with his eyes as if admiring his skill at exhaling. “Of course, they’d be a lot less tense if you’d just say yes already,” he remarked, squinting at Jason across the dining room table.

Jason leaned back in his chair, and looked around Brian’s dining room, pausing to rub his hands over his face. He had come over at Brian’s insistence, and knew he was in for a hard sell. But he had hoped he could have a conversation with him on both sides of the issue. He should have known better. “Brian, why are you so jacked up to get back with those two, especially Bobby? Did you forget what he said to you? I mean, I seem to remember you mentioning how satisfying you found it when his last album flopped.”

Brian took another drag and shrugged. “He apologized.”

“You believe him?”

“Yes and no,” replied Brian with a helpless expression. Jason looked hard at Brian for about ten seconds, and then chuckled. He leaned forward, and was about to say something, but thought better of it, and stood up. He found himself looking at a picture of Morning Star on stage that Brian had hanging on the wall in the dining room. It was a pretty good shot taken at a small club back when nobody had heard of them. A much easier time for all of them, when the pressure from the label hadn’t caused so much friction. Jason had never looked too closely at the shot, but noticed now that Doug was barely in frame, which wasn’t unusual for the drummer, being positioned slightly behind the rest of the band. What was sort of unusual was that Bobby, the front man, was partially obscured by Jason. Essentially, the shot was of him and Brian.

“How can you believe him, and not believe him?” asked Jason, turning back to the table, and leaning back against the wall with his arms folded.

“Well, it’s like, I know if he’s got other reasons to get the band back together, he’d be as slick as snake oil. But he sounded sincere, you know? When he was apologizing, he sounded like the old Bobby, the Bobby who wasn’t famous. He was stumbling over words and shit. But at the same time…” Jason nodded, letting Brian off the hook. He knew exactly what he meant. Bobby Paige was almost a used car dealer sometimes. “What’d he sound like when you talked to him?” Brian asked.

He thought back to the phone call the prior day. “Pretty much the same. I figured it was an act,” Jason said, rubbing his cheek, “but you make a good point. He’d probably try and sell it to us a bit slicker if he wasn’t somewhat sincere. But Bri…is an apology really enough? He said some downright shitty things ten years ago. Wrong things.”

Brian looked at Jason for a second, and hung his head a bit. “I know,” he said sheepishly, “But he really did sound sincere. Talked about pressure from the label, and how he didn’t know how much clout he had, and how he should have told them to shove it instead of buckling, and I sort of believe him. I mean, I have no reason not to.”

Jason’s eyes popped out incredulously. “No reason?! What about him telling you that you had no business being in a dinky garage band, let alone a gold album rock band?”

“Man, I know, but it was one night. He said really nasty stuff, once, one night. Horrible stuff, yeah, but what about the years before that where he never said one word? Yeah, he was always an ass, really, but he never said anything like that to me before. Does one night, which he apologized for…”

“Ten years later.”

“…completely invalidate everything else?” Jason started to say something, but stopped, letting Brian’s words sink in for a second. Brian grinned widely, and said, “Ha, I finally won one, alright,” pumping his fist.

“You didn’t win,” Jason grimaced.

“I so won.”

Jason sighed, and sat back down. “I honestly don’t know what to do. Ann is all for this, and it nearly broke my heart when Alex asked me if his dad was ‘gonna be a rock star again.’ But I don’t know if I have it any more, not just the grind of a tour, but the patience for Bobby and Doug.”

Brian took another drag of his cigarette, and then stubbed it out. “You don’t have to be friends with them. That was probably part of the problem in the first place. You just have to play music with them. Speaking of Alex, why don’t you bring him over here anymore? I’d like to see my godson once in a while.”

“Brian, for the millionth time, you aren’t his godfather.”

“Why do you have to crush a man’s dreams?”

“Your dream is to be a godfather?” Jason grinned. “Anyway, it’s your fifty pack a day habit. Don’t want him around all this smoke.”

“Four pack a day habit, thank you,” Brian said as he lit up another cigarette, “though I have been hitting them hard lately. Point taken.” He took another drag and rested the cigarette in his ashtray. “You still haven’t indicated either way what you’re gonna do, you know. You don’t have to commit to anything beyond a summer tour. It’d be an adventure, at the least.”

Jason smiled, and replied, “An adventure? Who am I, Indiana Jones?” He held up his hand to the protest he knew would be coming. “Look, I’m starting to think this might not be such a catastrophically bad idea. But I really don’t want to commit to something this huge without thinking it through. I’m not quite as free as you. I have a wife and kid to worry about, and as much as Ann assures me it won’t be a problem, I know it won’t be completely smooth sailing, either.” He shrugged.

Brian rolled his eyes in a “why me?” fashion, and focused back on Jason. “I hate you sometimes, man. All this ‘I’m not saying no, but I’m not saying yes, either’ crap.”

“You love me. That’s part of my unique charm.”

“Whatever. Well, at least you’re considering it.”

Jason nodded. “That’s all I can promise right now. I just need a few more days to think about it all, okay?”

“Deal. I really don’t want to do this without you along for the ride, you know,” said Brian, picking his cigarette back up to take a drag. “I mean, I will, I could use the money as well as the thrill, but it’d be a complete bummer without you.”

Jason couldn’t help but grin at the sentiment. “I promise that when I know, you’ll know.”

Chapter 1

I've been a posting maniac today, huh?

Anyway, I figured since it was "done," I'd post up Chapter 1 and see if anybody had any kind or brutal words for me in the morning. Again, don't say I didn't warn you. This one is quite a bit longer, obviously.

Chapter 1

2007

Drumming his fingers on the table, Jason looked again towards the diner door, and again at his watch. He had been there, nursing his coffee, for nearly thirty minutes. He hated tardiness, especially when he wasn’t thrilled about the meeting in the first place. He’d done few interviews these ten years, and mostly for local papers when he’d play or sponsor at local charity festivals. But this was for a national music publication, and worse yet, for one of those pithy “Where Are They Now?” pieces.

However, his wife had fielded the call from the writer, and she thought it was a wonderful idea. So at the table he sat, sipping at lukewarm sub par coffee. He was thinking of leaving and conducting the interview over the phone later when his cell phone rang. Figuring it was probably the reporter calling to give him a lame excuse, he opened it up without looking at the Caller ID, and said his name, his usual greeting.

“Jas! It’s Bri!” Jason shifted the phone to his other hand, and leaned back in his chair.

“Heya, Bri. What’s up?” Jason saw what had to be the reporter come in, with a camera bag. “I can’t really talk long, I’m about to give an interview.”

“Wow, an interview already? Cool, cool, call me back when you’re done,” and with a rustle, Jason realized Brian had hung up. Jason had enough time to wonder what he meant by already, when the reporter apprehensively came up to the table.

“Jason Henneman?” the reporter asked, as Jason stood up, and extended his hand.

“Yeah, that’s me. I know, I look a lot different. Short hair, no beard, that can really change a person’s look.” The reporter shook his hands, and Jason noted that this guy’s hand was clammy.

“I’m Dave Greenberg, from Massive Music, we spoke briefly.”

“Yes, of course.” Jason gestured at the seat across from him, and waved at the waitress. “Would you like some coffee? It’s really quite putrid.” The reporter chuckled and began to pull out a notepad and a tape recorder.

“Naw. Water is fine by me. I buck stereotypes that way,” he said, as the waitress came over. He then repeated the water request for her benefit, and added a bagel and cream cheese. Jason got a burger and fries, and as the waitress wandered to the kitchen, he started the interview with the very open ended “tell us what you’ve been doing these ten years?”

The interview lasted about half an hour, which surprised Jason. He figured it’d be a five minute talk, tops, considering he hadn’t really done all that much, but the reporter knew how to flesh out a story, apparently. Greenberg went off on tangents that Jason never thought they’d cover in a million years. They talked his family, they talked about how he and Brian had stayed close, all the different charity functions he’d helped out with. Every few minutes, though, Jason’s cell phone went off. He let all of them go to voicemail. The first number he didn’t recognize. The second was his wife, as was the third. Then Brian again. Finally, at the end of the interview, Greenberg led Jason outside to take photos for the magazine article. Jason gave him a boring pose, leaning against his car and smiling. Greenberg then thanked Jason, and with a handshake, they parted ways. Jason went back in to finish his fries, and pulled his cell out.

He debated who to call first, and decided to call Brian, who picked up before the first ring was even over. “Jas! So, are you in?”

“Do you mean done? Yeah, the reporter left a moment ago. What’s so important?”

“No, man, the reunion! Are you in? Did you make it official with that interview?”

Jason had a fry halfway to his mouth, and dropped it. “What reunion? What are you babbling about, Brian?”

“Um,” Brian fumbled for a second, “uh, didn’t Bobby call you?” With a flash of insight, Jason flashed back to the first caller, the number he hadn’t recognized.

“Bri, I’ll call you right back. Hold tight.” He unceremoniously pressed the end button, and keyed his voicemail up. He entered the passcode when prompted, and heard he had three messages. He keyed in to play the messages, and mentally prepared himself.

“Yeah, Jason? This is Bobby…uh, Paige. You know, from the band? Um, yeah, man, how are you doing? Listen, me and Doug, you remember Doug, right? Drummer? Well, me and Doug have been talking, and we want to pull Morning Star back together, for a tour, you know? If that goes well, then who knows. We’ve put out feelers and this could be huge. But we don’t want to do it unless we do it right, you know? Brian’s in. You’re the only one who we haven’t talked to. So, call me back at this number.”

The phone fell out of Jason’s hands and bounced off the table, as he simply stared straight ahead. As he heard his wife telling him that Bobby Paige had called looking for him and that she gave him his cell number coming from his phone, he slowly gained control of his wits. By the time he completely came around, Brian’s voice was chirping at him to hurry up and call him back. He snapped the phone shut, and sunk his head in to his hands.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

“It’s an incredible opportunity, Jason,” Ann said. “You know how many people would love to see you guys back together?”

Jason looked across the kitchen table to his wife, and shook his head. “That’s beyond the point, though. We broke up for a reason. I’ve barely spoken to Bobby in ten years, and he calls up, on basically a lark, and wants to reform the band? And what the hell is Brian thinking? He’s got way more reason to be upset at Bobby. I bet you this has more to do with Bobby’s latest solo album tanking more than anything else.”

“I’m sure he has his reasons. But does that really factor in to why you wouldn’t want to do it?” she asked, with that look she gave him whenever she wanted to read him like a book. Jason took a sip of his beer, and was about to protest, when he realized she had a point. He stood up, and started to pace.

“I’m not sure I have a tour in me, anymore. I’ve been off that scene for ten years. Different city every day, cramped tour busses, Bobby’s ego for months. What about you and Alex? What are you going to do while I’m off gallivanting? Who’s going to take care of Alex while you’re at work? It’d be entirely selfish to do this. With little real reward.” He drank the rest of his beer, and walked to the refrigerator to get another. When he turned around, Ann was standing right there.

“Stop making excuses, Jason. We’ve got the money for a babysitter, and that’s when my mom wouldn’t be available to watch Alex. You haven’t done anything completely for yourself, not like this, since I’ve known you,” she said, stepping closer and hugging him, putting her head against his chest. “You’ve been stagnating for awhile, honey. Don’t argue, it’s true. You need to stretch a bit, and this is perfect. You don’t have to get along with Bobby, you only need to work with him.”

Jason wrapped his arms around her, making her jump slightly when the cold beer bottle touched an exposed piece of skin on her arm. “You aren’t going to let me simply forget this ever came up, are you?” he asked her.

“Not likely, no. This would be great for you, I think. You grumble and complain when anybody mentions Morning Star, but I know you too well. You miss those days, maybe not all of it, but a lot of that time.” She leaned back to look him in the eyes. “You need to call Bobby.”

“Well,” Jason said, disentangling from Ann’s arms, “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to just talk to him, find out what the general plan is.” He tried not to look at her self satisfied smile as he scrolled through the missed calls on his cell phone. He found Bobby’s number, and hit dial.

“Bobby, it’s Jason…”

Bart's Eye View

I wandered out in to the backyard earlier, and saw looked up at the old DirectTV dish on the roof from when my dad got suckered in to their service. Had the camera, so I got this shot of it. I think it turned out rather well.

In other news, I may post Chapter 1 of The Reunion Tour tomorrow. I won't post more than Chapter 3 or so, though. However, I may put samples up or if privately requested for them.

Also, you may or may not have noticed that the banner picture has changed. No longer is it the eyes of a Blue Man, but now, it's all me.

Don't Say I Didn't Warn You

Here's the prologue for my current writing I'm sure to shelve. I'm calling it The Reunion Tour.

Jason threw what little clothes weren’t already in his bag back in, pulling the cinches on the old army-style duffel bag shut quickly. He looked over at the only other thing he carried himself, his guitar case, and sighed. “Damn you, Bobby,” he muttered as he slung his duffel over his shoulder, and grabbed his case. He took a look around the hotel room, and forced himself to look away. He wouldn’t miss being in a different hotel room almost every night, but at the same time…

He stopped himself from that line of thinking, and with his guitar case, knocked the ajar door all the way open and stepped through, using his foot to pull the door shut behind him. He boarded the elevator, having to make room for a family that boarded at the third floor. They looked at him apprehensively, and he could hardly blame them. Scraggly bleached hair down to his shoulders, a few days growth artfully remaining on his face. He’d be wary of himself in normal circumstances. Once at the lobby he let the family exit first, and made his way out the door. No need to check out, he figured the tour manager would probably take care of that stupid detail.

He exited the hotel and saw the cab waiting for him, which was nice. He had called for it only about ten minutes prior, and he had horrible luck with cabs in the past. He let the cabbie take his duffel and throw it in his trunk, but he wouldn’t part with his guitar case. He put that in the backseat before climbing in, taking one look back at the hotel, and taking a mental image for future cataloguing. The Ambassador in…oh damn, where am I? he thought. He looked at the cabbie’s license, which was issued in Missouri, right. He was outside Kansas City today. The Ambassador Hotel outside Kansas City, to be filed under “Where it All Fell Apart.”

The cabbie climbed in to the driver’s seat, and looked back with a “where to?” raise to his eyebrow. When he didn’t get an immediate answer, he cleared his throat. Jason, his reverie broken, replied “closest major airport, please.” Based on the cabbie’s grin, he figured it was something of a long trip…he’d probably be spending most of his money on hand for the fare. He sighed again, and hoped Brian was doing okay. He rubbed his hands over his face, and felt a sudden rush of guilt. He shouldn’t have stormed out like that. Well, he had every right to storm out, but he should have stayed to help Brian, or taken Brian out with him. He didn’t even consider how Brian was going to take this when he barged out. He sighed again, and decided to try to get an idea of how Brian was from the tour manager when he called from the airport. This was a conversation he was most definitely not looking forward to having.

As the cab pulled away from the curb, Jason settled in to his seat somewhat. He had no idea what he’d do once he got back home. But he knew there’d be a lot of questions…like why after five years as a national act, and right in the middle of a huge multi-country tour, Morning Star imploded. Questions he really didn’t want to answer.

That's Just...

So, something I learned, and managed to retain, in college (university for you not American folk...though I did go to what you'd call college as well) is that we misuse a word on a daily basis. Not just misuse it, but overuse it. What word is that, you ask?

Just.

I do it too. All the time. Go back and look at my postings here, I've probably done it a dozen or more times. Heck, I did it in that last paragraph (did you notice?) We all do, really. I really try and consciously not do it, especially when I'm "seriously" writing, but it still happens. It's ingrained. In fact, I could have misused it at least two times in this paragraph alone.

Just means fair. Rightful. Lawful. That sort of thing.

It doesn't mean "Only now happpened." As in "Just now." Or "nearly." That just missed. Or only. Just a gigolo. Or a couple of other things.

Actually, it does. But that's the changing lexicon for you. It's been misused for so long now, that the dictionaries are almost forced to let it be acknowledged. But I'm going to be honest with you, it's really kind of sloppy, which is why I try so consciously not to use it.

But that's not the real main reason why I still do it, even though I know that, in actuality, misusing just is fairly acceptable. I do it because focusing on that helps me to maintain focus on word choice as a whole. Word choice is all a writer has, you know? One word can make a sentence pop, or it can cause it to shrivel and wilt the entire sentence. Maybe even an entire paragraph. Word choice is as essential to a writer as individual notes to a piece of music. One out of place note and you are out of key and dissonant. Nobody wants to hear dissonant music (well, that's not entirely true) and nobody wants to read writing with poor word choice.

So, when I focus on making sure that I don't use just unless I'm referring to something right, or lawful, etc, I'm also making sure I focus on everything I say. Words are all I have as a writer. I have to use them well.

In upkeep news, I've added a random quote generator. Should update daily. I only have five quotes at the moment, but I'm going to try to add at least two a day for awhile, and build up the reservoir of other people's words.

I write, therefore I am.

Except I'm not all that much a writer.

I write awesome stories.

Unfortunately, I've never found a great way to get to those pesky sections. Like the end. And the middle.

It's actually quite annoying. I've had great ideas, but because I can't get past the beginning of pretty much every one, I know have about 50 great story idea beginnings. Worst part is, a lot of times I'll find my idea has been used in the time after I start.

For instance, God, Inc. It's funny. I wish I had thought of it first...oh wait, I did. But that's what I get. I got about ten pages in, and hit the wall. Pretty much like I always do.

It's actually pretty frustrating. Because a pretty huge part of me knows I'm a writer. But a small part of me is a rational person and knows that I have to actually write to be a writer. I know what you're thinking. "But Bart, what do you think you're doing right now?" I'm talking doing it for a living. Or at least as a lucrative side job. Not trying to explain to people how I got my current job with an English degree. Heh.

But I think the most frustrating part is that I'm having problems even starting anything even if I get one of my awesome ideas, because I think, "oh why bother, you're gonna hit that wall." Pretty self defeating, but hey, the whole kit and kaboodle here is a self defeation problem. I think I made up a word right there.