Getting Irked By A Master

Status: Groggy But Happy

What's playing on the iPhone: I GET IT by Chevelle

I can't remember the last time I read a book that both annoyed the living crap out of me and kept me riveted at the same time. Until today.

And what book, you may ask, could evoke such two polar opposite reactions from someone normally inclined to love an author they consider both a master and a mentor from afar? (that would be Stephen Frickin' King, one of my all time favorites)

UNDER THE DOME.

First off, it was awesome. I'd recommend it to anyone. HOWEVER, and this is a big fat however, it downright irked me, had me clenching my jaws and rolling my eyes, not the story mind you, that was just about flawless, but something the author did.

If there’s one rule I’ve learned—well, I’ve learned hundreds—but in the top three, one of the most crucial qualities of any good story is that the reader MUST be able to suspend belief in reality and that can’t happen if the AUTHOR keeps flinging out political zingers. It’s jarring, annoying, and it takes me right out of my reading zone. Granted, Stephen King is one of the few authors who can wield the omniscient pov with dazzling proficiency, but the danger is that connection between character and reader can be broken, especially if ideology trumps story. Blech!

Whether I agree, disagree, or am indifferent to the author’s ideology, if it detracts from the story, even if only to illicit a ‘hell yeah’, a few layers of illusion are swiped away. Don’t get me wrong, I love rooting for a character, but note my use of ‘character’, not author. Even as I write this I could play devil’s advocate with myself; some authors get off on pushing their point of view across, might even say that it adds flavor to a story and some readers might dig that, just not this reader. It always comes down to the story, and as a writer, I want a fifteen year old hipster saying that was bad-ass, and I want a seventy-two year old Greek Grandmother saying, ‘that was bad-ass’. Is it possible? Of course it is. Just got to find the right story. Which I aim to do.

Numerous times. Mwa ha ha ha ha.

My point is this: If I didn't love Stephen King so much I probably would have dropped that book. I was offended. Not by the ideology, to that i say whatever blows your hair back, but to the method in which it was employed... one-sided, without giving creedance to an opposing viewpoint. Maybe it's the Libra in my first four houses, but a flag goes up when I see that and... I got miffed. And if I did, I bet you a bunch of other readers did too. Unless you're trying to alienate a block of readers, at least be evenhanded. That's my take.

Steve out.

P.S. Despite saying all that, I still must say… UNDER THE DOME was bad-ass.

The Soul Tank--A Writer's Best Friend

Status: Bleary-eyed but chugging

What's playing on the iPod: THROUGH GLASS by Stone Sour

Everybody has a soul tank.

At the present, mine is brimming like a mug of dark roast coffee with no room for cream. The question I'm sure you're asking is: What the heck is a soul tank? And why should I give a rat's furry butt?

Easy enough. Allow me to begin by offering an example. Today I got some bad news, bordering on tragic. I won't bore you with the details, but instead of looking for my handy tanto (Japanese shortsword) to commit seppaku with, I did what I always do when I'm emotional. I wrote. Not only did I write, but I wrote sixteen pages of nearly flawless brilliance, quite the contrast from the clump of gerbil niblets I pumped out yesterday. The trick was simple--the settings of my soul tank.

The soul tank is a crossroads of the heart and mind, the vessel within us where we take that volatile, flammable and concentrated emotion and convert it. The question is...convert it into what?

Most people's soul tanks are set to default. Some shop, some eat, and some sing, while others spontaneously combust taking as many people with them as they can. It could be used to catapault the Space Shuttle into orbit, neglected and allowed to dissipate, or abused to leave a Nagasaki-sized crater in our souls and beyond. I myself am a big fan of the exosphere so my settings are on growth, learning, and of course creation via my own writing.

Some of the most touching songs I've ever heard were written by artists mortally wounded by heartbreak or by the elation of true love that transcends the normal spectrum of experience.

I sure hope I'm not sounding preachy, it's just a little visual I came up with to help keep me all woo-sah when the need arises. I figured that if everybody did a little rummaging within themselves, found the dials and set them to what they wanted them to be, the world would be less fugeize. And that's always a good thing, right?

What are your settings?

Demons--Part II

Status: Movin' and Groovin'

What's playing on iTunes? SOME KIND OF WONDERFUL by GRAND FUNK RAILROAD

I know, I suck, it's been a while, but I got into a little tiff with Mr. Murphy (of Murphy's infamous law). Fortunately I pursuaded him to go elsewhere so without further ado, allow me to finish my little dance with terror.

I get a phone call, about six, seven weeks out from Christmas. It's Jen. There's only one reason why she would be calling me on this date. The play. Dun dun dun dunnn. Immediately dread sinks in. I answer with the greatest of trepidation but I feign enthusiasm. "Hey, how's it goin'? How's life...?" Happy, chipper, go-lucky Jen is down and ready to resume play terror. With the guh-reatest of reluctance, shaking my head, gritting my teeth and clenching my fist I say, "Deal me in." Inside I was thinking, God, this one's for you. I did NOT want to do this play. Play=Terror.

I had no idea we'd be rehearsing three times a week. I work full time in CT, live in Queens, am presently finishing up novel number two, and dealing with the usual tornado of life, long story short, resentment festered. And I'm not an actor! The furthest thing from it, remember, on a scale of 1 to 10, a 9 and a half was my dread for the thing....I didn't want to do this play! I was busy. I might have even threw a mini-temper tantrum or two trying to make this work, who knows?

Something happens though when you rehearse something a ka-billion times--you actually learn your lines, even as many as I had. As the date neared, the dread did not dissipate, but for the first time I thought to myself, "We just might pull this off." Not only that, but Jen is a gifted director. Of course, my experience with any directors is nil so what do I know? Yet nevertheless, I found myself...releasing. Getting into character. Sure helped having a great co-star, too, Jean-san rocks.

And then the day was upon us. Our church meets in a highschool auditorium every sunday so there were the proper accoutrements of sound, two giant screens, (which the disciple Luke would be referring to with his cosmic remote control) stadium seating and media. I'm told it was the largest crowd we've ever had with the exception of Christmas and Easter services.

Of course.

I'd purposefully invited NOBODY, but word got out anyway and there was my family, friends, even two of my friends from work, both of which were not even remotely Christian, in fact one is a proud aetheist, but they came anyway. God bless'em. And dammit.

As I sat in the dark, by myself, lines evaporating in my mind as I tried to conjure them, I detached, like any good writer, and gave myself a good once-over. "Well, here's a fine situation you've gotten yourself into," I thought. "Bet you didn't have this on your things to do this year." This modern rendition of scrooge was all me for the first ten minutes, I'd be rocking out to AC/DC, berating my intern and sound booth, fielding pre-recorded phone calls from listeners (I'm a jaded DJ) and then have to pretend they were real, and then have to deal with angelic disciples in the form of the great Jean-san...craziness I tell you--terror inducing.

And then HIGHWAY TO HELL blared on the speakers, the spotlight blinded me and it was...showtime. Death itself couldn't have tempted me to look at my audience. I just did it like we'd rehearsed a thousand times. Jen had told me that when it came down to it, we'd rock, that everything would come together. Of course Mr. Murphy wasn't done with me quiiiiite yet. Evidently, he's not a fan of sloppy backhands. See, in the middle of the second act, an evil thought whispered through my brain as I listened to Luke tell me how it was. The thought? "You're fly is down."

Evil I tell you. For just the briefest of moments I broke my concentration and verified in tsunami-grade relief that my fly was NOT down, but instead of saying the lines I was supposed to, I said the conclusion lines of the third act. Result? Play ends in the middle of the second act. Awkward silence. Knowledge of mistake. Ensuing terror. But we winged it. Jean points his cosmic remote control to the left, the lights go down as the prerecorded version of Mary from last year (Sahani, you rock too) showed, Jean leans in to me and whispers, "I think you said the wrong lines," and I'm like, "Yup. I sure did. Just roll with it, we're going to keep going as if it never happened." With a suppressed smile he was like, "Okay," and we did it.

When it was done, I went out the back and hid in a corner, repeatedly gonging my head against the wall for being so stupid. HOW COULD I HAVE FORGOTTEN MY LINES? I felt humiliated, dumb, embarrassed, and I stayed hidden backstage for a good twenty minutes which was a looooooong time considering the circumstances. Finally, I ventured out and took my seat, but instead of the rest of the cast being there, there were only empty seats, as if to say, "Yeah, you suck, sit by yourself in the front seat of SHAME." Which I did. Feeling about the size of a stag beetle. And then a tap on my shoulder. My head sank. Last thing I wanted was some person blowing a load of sunshine my way, telling me I did a good job when I knew I'd screwed up and that I sucked and that I was going to be scarred forever because it was being recorded and was going to be posted on a podcast for everybody to see for the rest of my life to laugh at me. Yay.

"Are you an actor?" these two girls ask me (I forget her name but I think I've known her for years but haven't admitted it yet cause I'm not sure) And I'm like, "Fu*k no!" (I didn't actually say that, it was church after all) and then the craziest, coolest thing that could have happened...happened. She looks at me and whispers. "My God, natural talent; you were amazing."

Amazing? The girl next to her nodded and was looking at me like I had seventeen extra eyeballs. "Really?" I ask. Dare I hope? There was nothing contrived about the looks in their eyes. When the sermon was over I was bombarded with accolades and baffled looks. I got a lot of, "I thought you were a novelist," remarks and then I got the biggest high five and hug from Jen (she was the one I'd been afraid to face the most) "You hit it out of the park! Oh my God that was great!" Even my best friend was looking at me in a way I've never seen before but then...irony struck.

This whole time I'd decided I never wanted to see it. Ever. But in light of the reaction, maybe it would be worth checking out. Maybe. Who knew? One problem, though. Nobody ever hit the record button on the camera.

Nobody else would ever see it, including me. Just like I wanted.

Funny, no?

Demons--Part I

Status: Intrepid

What's playing on the iPhone? YOUR NECK by Alkaline Trio

I am not an actor. I've never wanted to be one, the very thought of it puckers my stomach and on a scale of 1-10 I'd estimate my aversion to acting a nice solid 9. Maybe even 9.2. Stage terror.

It's ironic, I'm a very social person, i think if nobody was ever actually going to see me act, I'd be great. If it wasn't for those pesky audiences. Anywho, I find nothing pleasant about the squadrons of butterflies armed with sidewinder missiles that bombard my innards right before having to perform, or give a talk, or...act. We hates it prrr-ecious!

So, you can imagine my initial alarm when a friend of mine approached me about a church play she was writing. I immediately looked at her and criss-crossed my index fingers to ward off any attempts to recruit me to acting, but no fear, she simply wanted my opinion on the writing aspect of it. Now that's a different story. Of course I know nothing of stage writing, or do they call that playwriting? Either way, I write novels, which is a completely different animal, but hey, why not?

Famous last words.

As it turns out, the MAIN character of my friend's play abruptly had to go to another country (China, I think) for work. When Jen told me, I was like, 'that's terrible, what are you going to do?' I thought my uninvolvement was self evident but....guess who she asked? And I was like, 'no way, not in a hundred quadrillion years'. And that's final.

Or so I thought. Evidently Jen can talk a rabid wolverine into having tea with a grumpy rhinocer0s with hemorrhoids. I told her that ONLY after she asked everybody in the whole universe FIRST that I would even consider it....

Think she found anybody? You so smaht. Of course she didn't, plus she was like, 'you're perfect for the role' and 'you know all the lines'. Barfballs. So with EXTREME trepidation I agreed. Kicking and screaming.


It's an epic story, but I'll be succinct. We rehearsed a lot. To my considerable dismay, not only was I the lead but I had a lot of lines. Like a hundred and twenty! I had to remember all of them! And anybody who knows me knows that that my memory...is not my biggest strength. What in God's good name did I get myself into??

True, I grew as a person. And got to make two new dear friends (Jean! Jen!) but it didn't change the fact that I still didn't want to do that play. It was going to be a fiasco, I was certain of it. I just wasn't ready. I KNEW I wasn't ready, and I was the lead and I was going to bomb and I wasn't looking forward to it. At all.

But, hark! Divine intervention--A SNOWSTORM!!! The play was cancelled. For me it was beams of sunshine...no play! No terror! Of course, I didn't dare admit to my friends but I was so gloriously happy that went outside and did snowangels.

As an afterthought, (I should have kept my trap shut) I said, 'maybe next year'. And then I forget about the whole thing. Until November 26th....

Writing and Bootcamp

Status: Bleary-eyed

What's playing on the iPod? THAT SONG by Big Wreck

I think every human being should go through bootcamp.

I'm sure there are many who might beg to differ, but there's nothing like having everything you've ever taken for granted snatched away from you at a million decibels, and then having to earn it back piece by piece. Wanna know what nirvana is in bootcamp? A patio break. Just fifteen minutes of blissful solace on a twenty by twenty slat of concrete just outside the squadron without any devil-spawn training sergeant filling your life with terror and irate tangents. With a can of Coke and a bag of Famous Amos Chocolate Cookies.

True story.

So, who gives a flying rat's furry butt, anyway? Well, you should, if you're a writer or know one. There is a link. In the same way only another veteran can know the trials and tribulations of bootcamp, (words are inadequate to convey the experience properly, which is saying something coming from a writer) only another writer can know the AAAAAHHHRRRGGGHHHH-ness of the craft.

Creating something from nothing is no tip-toe through the petunias. Especially when you're already too little butter spread over a seriously large jalepeno bagel. I love this one, "Oh, you're just going to go and write? Can you help me with some real work?" Suh-lap. Please pick up lips off floor and come again.

And even when you do get the time, it's no guarantee that you're going to get anything useful done. Suddenly the dictionary becomes riveting. I once organized a handful of dried pepper seeds into three armadas and did battle with a quarter and two nickels. The pepper seeds won.

I guess my point is this: Writer's are a different breed. They're a little on the weird side and they have little...peccadillos, so if you know one who is reaching exasperation level 5 kajillion because they're looking for a little tranquitlity to tackle a particuarly obstinate chapter, go easy on them. Otherwise they might just spontaneously combust. And that's no fun. Well, for most people at least.

Steve out.

Dodging a Bullet

Status: Happily alive.

What's playing on iTunes? STAND BY ME by Ben E. King

I almost died today.

Sounds dramatic, right? Perhaps a little exaggerated? Nope. Today, I almost bought it, and in spectacular fashion too.

There's a reason why mechanics, parents, and anybody with common sense or an aversion to procrastination tells you to change bald tires. If you don't, you could DIE.

Take today's little near death experience. I'm driving back from the city, merging from I684 to I84 in the sodden mess called New England weather, and took the ramp a little too fast. I feel myself begin to skid, make a small adjustment which evidently was too much, fishtailed a little bit more to the left, then waaaay too much to the right, and found myself doing a complete 360' right in the middle of the highway in oncoming traffic; in fact, I got the front license plates of the two tractor trailors bearing down on me, honking and swerving and challenging my bladder to remain sealed.

Fortunately, God loves me, because that's the only thing that saved my keester. Even my fabled panther-ninja skills weren't enough. Chronometric time as I knew it disintegrated. I had time to freak, pray, yank the emergency break and somehow spin perfectly to the side of the highway right into the breakdown lane while somehow avoiding obliteration. Well, almost perfectly; my back end was sticking out a little.

Trembling, wide-eyed and completely sprizzlefracked, I realized that I was still alive. Yippie-Skippies! Nothing like a little near death experience to get the juices flowing. Suddenly everything that was dragging me down didn't seem so heavy. After a couple of quick, shallow breaths I realize that an argument could be made that that was fricking AWESOME. Well, maybe awesome is not the right word, exhilarating perhaps? I dunno, something. Terrifying for sure, but...what a rush. In fact, that more I think about it, the more I realize that all that was missing was me rolling down my window and sticking out a Glock to fire on my villain pursuers! All right, that's the writer in me, but it was cuh-raazy! I haven't told my parents. I don't think I will. This will be a true test to whether or not they actually read my blogs.

Moral of the story? Don't be a Steve; procrastination is not your friend. Change your tires, drive safe in the rain, and be grateful for all that you have. Or there might be an angry tractor trailor in your future.

Oh, and guardian angels rock. Thanks, guardian angel. :)

Steve out.

The Grr-factor

Status: Unabducted

What's playing on ipod?: DANCING SHOES by the Arctic Monkeys

Try this one out.

I'm all ready to go to my cousin's 18th birthday party (a cousin I haven't seen in several eons), I come to my car, and guess what's sitting in the driver's seat?

A big fu**ing rock.

And how did said rock arrive? Why, through the window of course. I must say, NY and my car seem to be in some kind of tiff, because I've been hit by an off duty cop who despite my freakishly fast reflexes reversed right into my grill, accumulated several parking tickets due to 'street washing' (yeah right), and then a nice, deep key-ing right in the hood of my car. Yup, I believe the exact terminology used by the vandals was 'Dick' (can you believe it? I'm such not a dick) and then yesterday...Mr. Rock.

But here's where the story get's interesting. I peer into my busted to merkatroits window, and the first thing I see (besides a bazillion fragments of glass) is two one dollar bills. Curious. I do a quick inventory and see that nothing is missing. My eyes go back to the two dollars. They're just sitting there, on top of the open, ransacked glove compartment door.

I'm gonna ask it. Why go through the trouble of a throwing a rock through a window, break in and enter, and then leave EVERYTHING? Especially two loosely rolled dollar bills that would have been so easy to just snatch; I mean they were right there.

And then I saw it. Sitting right next to the bills was a small, yellow card with neatly typed words. Every Sunday, my church (Calvary Fellowship in West Hartford, hoo-ya!) prints out a single verse relevant to the sermon preached on little yellow cards. This one evidently got away from me and slipped into the darkness of my overfilled glovebox. Lurking.

And then it pounced! Of course I'll never know exactly what stopped them from pilfering my belongings, but that little card was just sitting there. I think these guys just might have been God-fearing thieves.

Isn't that funny? I mean, how mad could I get?

Thanks God. You too Bill.

Steve out.




P.S. I would have preferred just a pic but evidently freezing a snapshot from a video on an iPhone is tougher than I first surmised...