Clouds that Form a Hurricane

It'll storm later today. A spring rain. April showers and all that. The dark clouds are moving in. It feels a little like dusk although it's 6 o'clock in the morning. 

For some reason this week, I've been seeing a lot of social media posts about how little people read. (BTW, thanks for reading this; readers get so little recognition these days.) This has me thinking about how difficult it can be to carve out time to read and to write. The pressures on daily survival surmount my best intentions to give writerly pursuits the time of day. And, yes, it doesn't help to see posts about how few of us take time with a book. Why bother writing one?

The last book I read literally was blown from my hands. A few weeks back, I downloaded an ebook on my phone to pass the time on a two-hour plane ride. The story -- a whodunit detective story with a female protagonist -- was kinda outside my normal genre of choice (literary). I'll come back later here and put the name of the title and author (Unbreakable Bond by Gemma Halliday and Jennifer Fischetto). I was impressed by the hooks. Good character development, an intriguing storyline, not too heavy of a subject, and no grotesque violence. Then the plane hit turbulence -- my phone flew up out of my hands and landed in the aisle one seat behind. It was the kind of turbulence that has a person clutching your seat mate's hand without the benefit of introductions. It was terrifying and was an exclamation point to two very difficult weeks.

I'm not a praying person, but that didn't stop me. Wouldn't it be a shitter if life had come to a screeching halt just then? Leave my parents and kids behind? Shudder to think. When I got off the plane, I literally looked white and wanted to fall prostrate on the tarmac (we actually walked across it to get to the terminal). I'd like to say that the experience shook me so much that I re-evaluated my entire life. It didn't. People do that, you know. Have life-changing experiences from trauma or fright. What I've found is that it isn't one event that turns me. It's the clouds that gather and eventually form a hurricane. 

Lately, there are just so many clouds. The world is fraying, and the uncertainty and cruelty and disconnect turn my stomach. Sad situations on every channel. What is the answer? To do something inward? Make peace with yourself, cultivate Zen? Or make an outward motion? Run for office, raise money for charity, hell, start a charity. What I should do is go back to writing. I have no conceit that it makes anything better except that it does. It does with me. And I'll give money. To people and animals. I'll continue to love. My family and friends and cats and sweetheart. And, I'll write, plant seeds of hope and identity, here and elsewhere, and tell it like I see it.

And for 2016, A Micro-Press

Last year, I had a dream. Not a night-time, fuzzy version populated by strange characters from my past slinking in and out of the scenery. I had a dream to start a tiny publishing house. House. What a big word for such a small venture. Mine is more like two playing cards (Jokers) leaned up against each other.

Everything in my logical mind (and here is where I spend far too much time, hence many of my dreams are never pursued because practicalities outweigh possibilities) said GET REAL. Who are you to publish other people's work? A literary genius? An editor with aplomb? A deep-pocketed heiress? No, I am none of those. And I started a press anyway.

Enter the world, Black Bomb Books.

The name suggests my thought process. I wanted to blow up my own conventional ideas about what I was supposed to do. Smithereens, we're talking. Who has a corner on the publishing world? I'm here to tell you, no one does any more. The landscape is a shambles, and so why not agitate the chaos and send another voice into the smoke heaps. The old ways of publishing are burning down. Black Bomb is another detonation. More like a firecracker.

Thing is, I knew plenty of good, dedicated writers who couldn't find the right place to publish their work. It often takes years of trying. Years of writing something new. Writing something commercial, something marketable, before an agent or a publisher takes interest. This causes good writers to give up. Should they? I think there is room in the world (the galaxy) for many, many stories. If one writer's story or poem fails to attract the interest of the NY brain trust, should the writer up and quit? What a tragedy. And this happens far more than is researchable. Drawers and drawers full of dusty manuscripts.

I'm not the answer to rejection; I just didn't want to contribute to it when I had the skills to give a few good pieces of work a little push out into the world. That's how I envision it, as a way to put a shoulder into a writer's efforts, give the artist some encouragement, tell her the work is fine work, should be birthed, and wouldn't it be grand if he could hold it in his hands, for kicks, for others to read, for mom-n-dad, for people to see the connections.

Writing is truly about connecting with humanity. A writer's ideas are letters of hope (even the zombie books and the erotica). We fling our stories out into the universe and say to the swirling stardust: You might be bigger, but take a look at this. I hope my little press launches a few good ideas and the writers who wrote them. Potentially lighting a few more fuses.

Children's Author H. Joseph Hopkins of Portland

About three years ago, I pitched a book at a practice session of the Willamette Writers' annual conference in Portland. I stood in a roomful of other aspiring authors and gave my three-minute elevator speech for a panel of four agents. I succeeded because I finished without fainting, and one of the agents thought the idea sounded sexy. Unfortunately (or fortunately?), no agents at the conference took me as a client.

During that same session, I heard another fellow give a pitch, and later we ran into each other on the way out of the hotel lobby. He was H. Joseph Hopkins, and he already had a publisher for a children's picture book. I forget what he had been pitching; he didn't leave the conference with an agent either. But Joe and I hit it off from there, though we didn't run into each other again until several months later (maybe a year). We related and had good conversations.

One reason we get along is because Joe is excellent at telling stories. He has a deep curiosity about people and historical events, the off-beat kind. That's how his picture book got published. It took him 10 years! One trial after another delayed the release. But a year ago this month, Simon and Schuster published his book, The Tree Lady: The True Story of How One Tree-Loving Woman Changed a City Forever. It chronicles the notable life of Kate Sessions, who was chiefly responsible for making San Diego green.

JEN: How did Kate Sessions do so much?

JOE: Kate Sessions is one of the “visionary captains” of early San Diego, one of a small circle of people—mostly businessmen—who set the cultural and economic directions that San Diego has followed. You might wonder what made Kate Sessions a visionary captain. She had longevity, for one. She worked at planting in San Diego for 55-plus years. Very few people get to plant a tree and watch it grow for 50 years. She also had the stamina to work outdoors in the Southern California sun and heat seven days a week, year after year. She attributed her good health to working outdoors in fresh air, wearing loose-fitting clothing, comfortable shoes, and always a hat. She also never married, so her time was not divided between family, home, children, and work.

JEN: What kind of person was Kate Sessions?

JOE: She was extroverted, gregarious, high energy, impulsive, made decisions on the spur of the moment, always on the go, and most of the time late. There was only one-way to do things: Kate’s way. She often grabbed the shovel or pick from a workman and demonstrated the proper way to use the tool: her way. She was not money-oriented: she gave away flowers to children, donated nursery plants to civic projects, and provided more plants than the customer ordered. Thought frugal, she was always short of money. Neither was she domestic. Kate did not spend time cooking, cleaning, or keeping house. She hired a housekeeper. She wrote that women would be healthier if they worked outdoors. She once told a judge that women could not expect justice in a court of law.


JEN: Why did her story fascinate you so?

JOE: Thinking back, one thing that attracted me to Kate Sessions was my positive bias toward green plant color. I was familiar with a lush, green landscape after having grown up in Missouri’s Ozark Mountains and then in Washington State’s Puget Sound. When I saw the green lawns, palms, and trees of Balboa Park, on one side of the road, and the earth tones of the Southern California desert on the other side of the highway, I think something automatic in me took over: I was drawn to the greenery in the park. When I first heard of Kate Sessions, I was spending my working days helping middle school students remember what teachers talked about. Most of these students had experienced years of defeat in school, and they were discouraged. I thought Kate might serve as a hero, a person who had persevered and overcome, a person to emulate. I began telling stories about Kate as a means of practicing listening and remembering.


JEN: You always have such great ideas for books and papers when we speak. What do you want to work on next?

JOE: Do you recall the name "Althea Gibson?" Gibson was the first black woman tennis champion during the middle 1950s. I'm working on a picture book about Gibson and an English player, Angela Buxton. Among elite tennis players Gibson (a black) and Buxton (a Jew) were outsiders. The elite ladies tennis stars were like a Protestant upper class sorority that moved from town to town living off the wealthy who supported amateur tennis. Gibson and Buxton, united in their status as outsiders, formed a lasting friendship that carried on for decades after tennis. Gibson was one who overwhelmed opponents with her intimidating physical skills; Buxton had the verbal and schmoozing skills of a skilled problem solver. Gibson was ahead of her time, playing like Billie Jean King and those who would come later when ladies tennis became a major money maker. She played a masculine game during an overly feminine era. Buxton played with a similar determination to win. So I'm taking vignettes from their tennis careers to point out how they played the roles of a friend.

Signing books at Powell's City of Books, Portland, Ore.

Thanks, Joe. Always great to hear from you. Find a link to his book and learn more about Joe on www.KateSessions.net. 

A Writer's Reading List

What are you reading? I frequently ask people this question. So? Yep, give. You. And not only do I want to know what you are reading but why you are reading it and what the book is about and if you like what you are reading or not. I want to know the author and the genre and if it has a lot of pages or not so many. And if it's a series and who told you to read it. I'm making up for the time I won't be able to read everything that's ever been written. I wasted too many good years not reading, and I need details. So, give.

I lament that I'm a slow reader. I've always been and practice hasn't helped. I tend to read several books at once, which also doesn't help my progress, but I need to read for many reasons, for enjoyment, research and craft. It all adds up to slow going.

Here's my reading list as it awaits on my bedside table.

Not pictured, Twenty Years After. This is the Alexandre Dumas story of what happens to the Musketeers, you guessed it, 20 years after the end of the first story. It is not as good as its predecessor. But I'm reading it to inform the stories I'm writing, which complete storylines within the context of Dumas's world. I'll have to admit, I take my liberties.

Also, I will soon start reading the latest translation of The Three Musketeers by Richard Pevear, published in 2006. I've heard it is excellent. Someday, I might try my own spin on the novel, but it won't be a translation because I don't know any French. It'll have to be a retelling, and not of the YA variety.

When all the hype about the J.D. Salinger book came out recently, I pulled out a book of his short stories and read the one called For Esme -- With Love and Squalor. Excellent. Thank you to the lender.

I just bought The Black Count by Tom Reiss, which is a winner of the Pulitzer Prize for non-fiction. It is the story of the father of Alexandre Dumas (do you understand why I get eye rolls from my family when I mention The Three Musketeers?).

A dear college friend of mine, who has begun to write (I take a little credit for inspiring her), sent me a copy of Naked, Drunk, and Writing by Adair Lara. This promises to be a hoot-and-a-half, though I wonder if encouraging me to drink more, get naked more and write more is a prudent suggestion.

At a yard sales we organized this summer, I met an inspirational writer, Jennifer Powers, who lives in Portland. She came to our sale and bought a big Teddy bear. She also happens to be the author of Oh, Shi*f*t! How to Change Your Life with a Little F'in Shift. I need more than a little f'ing one, but don't tell anyone. Her book is funny.

Another friend, who I credit with reviving my love of fiction, handed me a copy of Jennifer Egan's A Visit from the Goon Squad, which also won a Pulitzer. And underneath that gem is Cheryl Strayed's Wild, a borrowed copy from a writer friend here. I have a book by said friend to read after Wild along with essays by writers in The Writer's Notebook II from Portland's Tin House Books. I picked it up at the Willamette Writer's conference.

Last but not least, I infrequently flip through a copy of No Fear Shakespeare, of the sonnets with notes to understand them.

Those are within arm's reach at night. What's on your reading radar?

Moby Dick: The Challenge

My daughter recited the first two lines of Moby Dick to me on the way home from school this week. She's determined to read it this year. She's in fifth grade.

A little background here. I tried reading Moby Dick last year. Valiantly trudged through the first 200 or so pages. Then decided that even as a writer, I'd let myself off the hook. There were other books I wanted to read, not had to read to be "serious."

I blogged about it. Received some flak about it. Shrugged and moved on.

But now. My ten-year-old is upstaging me with her determination. Generally, I try to keep my family life out of my blogging life, but I just can't let this slide.

One reason she's reading Moby Dick is because her class at school is participating in a Critic's Circle and each child must propose a book to read and critique once finished. She's almost to the part in the book, which she started in May to my surprise, when Captain Ahab finally makes an appearance.

It doesn't seem to bother her that the book is written in wordy prose and a series of essays. She isn't that concerned whether the plot keeps her interest. She admitted that she doesn't care if she even understands it. She just wants to read it. Maybe that's the element that was missing in my own attempt, not feeling like I needed to be entertained or fully comprehend the subtext.

Truly, I'm flattered that a little of my influence has rubbed off on her. She's an active reader and sees me reading often. Her project to take on Moby Dick is charming and inspiring, and I have no doubt that she'll have more success at reaching the end than I did.

A few days ago, I finished reading out loud to her The Extraordinary Education of Nicholas Benedict, a book equal in length to Moby Dick, but with a less-daunting intellectual bent. We'd spent about six months reading it off and on at night, and we closed in on the ending a few weeks ago. And what an ending it was! A couple of lines in the last chapters stopped us cold with lumpies in our throats. Maybe she'll share her lumpies from Moby Dick with me, whether it takes her six months or a lifetime to finish.

Call me Ishmael. Some years ago--never mind how long precisely--having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore ...

Books Are Not Dead

December, they say, is a tough month for noveling. That makes sense. But July is a tough month for blogging.  It's summer, for Pete's sake. No one wants to waste the daylight by staying indoors, especially not in Portland. 

I'm feeling a little rusty. Words have been slow to come lately. I haven't been reading much fiction either, but I still take time via email to look at several feeds about books and book selling. The latest news is that ebooks made huge gains in the last year. Sales for adult fiction jumped by a double-digit percentage. And writers are fighting for their digital royalties. Maybe I'll weigh in on the fight when I actually have digital royalties (chortle, snort).

Every writer seems to have an opinion about whether the book is dead. It's not. Won't be. Not in hardcopy or electronic form. People are reading. Am I blowing you away with my intellect? I'm basically a realist and not a futurist or naysayer. People want to be entertained, and increasingly, books are about the cheapest way to break away from bills and bad headlines. When an ebook is 99 cents or zero (granted, you have to own a pricey ereader first) or a nice paperback in a used bookstore is priced at a couple of bucks, people are still going to read.

I happened into a used bookstore recently with my daughter in the Hollywood neighborhood of Portland and was happy to find a 2012 Portland Area Booksellers Directory. I snapped it up. I've been to several nice bookstores in the city, and here, by golly, was my ticket to more. I thought it would be nice to share the list online, and you can also check out the Portland Area Used Booksellers Association listing by browsing to www.pauba.org.

Downtown
Carmon's Books & Magazines on Third Ave., www.cameronbooks.com
CounterMedia on Oak St., on Twitter @CounterMedia
Daedalus Books on Flanders St., www.abebooks.com/home/daedalus
Old Oregon Bookstore on Morrison
Powell's City of Books on Burnside, www.powells.com

SE Portland
Bingo Used Books on Powell, www.bingousedbooks.com
Future Dreams on East Burnside
Hawthorne Boulevard Books on Hawthorne
Longfello's Bookstore on Division, www.longfellowspdx.com
Mother Foucault's Bookshop on SE Morrison
Murder by the Book on SE Hawthorne, www.mbtb.com
Paper Moon Books on Belmont
Powell's on Hawthorne, www.powells.com
Wallace Books on SE Milwaukie

North and NE Portland
Monograph Bookwerks near Alberta, www.monographbookwerks.com
Second Glance Books on Sandy, www.secondglancebooks.com
St. Johns Booksellers on Lombard
The Title Wave Used Bookstore on Knott, www.multcolib.org/titlewave/

Beaverton
Book Corner on 5th, www.thebookcorner.org
Powell's at Cedar Hills Crossing

Vancouver, WA
Cover to Cover Books on St. James Road, www.covertocoverbooks.net
Vintage Books on Mill Plain Blvd, www.Vintage-Books.com
Zephyr Used & Rare Books on Main St., www.abebooks.com/home/zephyrbooks/

Lake Oswego
Booktique on Mercantile Dr.

Several booksellers associated with PAUBA operate without a storefront. And this obviously isn't a comprehensive list. Portland is jammed with books and readers. If you'd like me to add your bookstore to the list, just ask. Happy browsing.

Phooey on Moby Dick

Visualize this: a log chipper and my copy of Moby Dick. In she goes. Halleluiah, I've given it up. No more rereading paragraphs that put me to sleep. No more fretting over my lack of enthusiasm. I officially will not, ever, in my lifetime, or within the span of eternity, finish Moby Dick.

Right now, it's sitting at the bottom of a stack of much better books (including Julian Barnes' Pulse, a collection of stories). It languishes alongside several others that I've read or am excited to read. I even added to that stack several self-help titles (which I hardly ever read *yawn*), and they were more exciting than Moby Dick.

I wasn't expecting excitement. I wasn't expecting it to be a page-turner. Heck, I didn't know what to expect, but whatever it didn't deliver, it didn't deliver. I understand everyone has an opinion. Share it if you want. I may go to literary hell for publicly pronouncing my blase attitude about Melville's classic work. It just didn't speak to me. It was self-torture to continue. I give myself permission not to go forth. Ah, that feels better.

Smallpressapalooza #PDX

It's a rare occurrence to be able to hear the work of a dozen outstanding writers for free in one night. Smallpressapalooza, held Monday at Powell's City of Books in downtown Portland, kept a nice-sized crowd happy for four hours. Poets, memoirists and novelists traveled from as far as Kansas, Illinois and NYC to celebrate Small Press Month, a loosely promoted awareness campaign by the nation's tiny publishers.

Kevin Sampsell, the avowed "small press champion" at Powell's, organized the fifth annual event, to promote small presses and their talent. He works double time, no, make that triple time, by running his own small press, Future Tense Publishing, and by writing. His lineup of writers was noteworthy, at times hilariously odd and often, moving.

Although a champion for the little guy, Sampsell has earned success as a writer with a memoir published by Harper Perennial, A Common Pornography. He's working something else up while he juggles his duties at Powell's and Future Tense. He says Future Tense tries to put out about 3-4 works a year, and he is actually discouraging submissions right now. But, he does find good stuff in the slush still. (I recommend checking the website. It's cool even if you aren't submitting.)

The lineup of readers offered a lot of variety. It included several who began their publishing debuts in zines, including Elly Blue, who publishes palm-sized chapbooks and writes a blog about bicycling with a feminist twist. A little flushed, she read a section of one of her books about how women should care for their vulvas as cyclists. It left very little to the imagination. But, hey, where else can a female biker find guidance like that?

I'll mention three others who stood out for me during the evening. I attended with a friend and didn't know whether we'd stay all evening but ended up revved to the last reader. My friend had different favorites, but here are the ones I'm still thinking about four days out:

Diana Salier is a poet who just moved from San Fran to Portland two weeks ago. She read from a book of poetry called wikipedia says it will pass and a new one, which was delayed at the printer. I'll admit, I flipped through the royal-blue chapbook before she read and didn't get the same hit as when she spoke. She was very powerful. Blunt and chunky poetry. Her brief bio on her webpage gives the flavor: "diana salier is a musician // person who writes. she wrote wikipedia says it will pass and letters from robots. she is wearing striped pajamas."

The next author, Zach, published under the name Anonymous, read from his book called Love is Not Constantly Wondering If You're Not Making the Biggest Mistake of Your Life. It is a pick-your-own-adventure book, whereby the reader is offered choices at the end of each section to progress. Its subject matter is a relationship crumbling because of a girlfriend's alcoholism. I approached Zach after his reading because the work was so moving, I wanted to tell him. He didn't want his name on the book because he was afraid his mom (he's from NY) would find out and be disappointed in his own choices. But the work is good and nothing to be ashamed of (Zach's mom: If you ever find out, don't worry. Your son's got talent). He's sold 500 books so far and is working on something else. Don't let the cover of the book under-represent the contents.

Finally, Randy Blazak rounds out my top three, partly because his reading was pretty hilarious and he looked like he had probably been a hair-band groupie at one point. Needless to say, his novel, released last November, Mission to the Sacred Heart a Rock Novel, is about an obsession with ELO, Electric Light Orchestra, and the churnings of a young Portland sophisticate. ELO is cool, so I could relate. He was animated and disarming, as was his writing. Nothing like the dry persona his bio suggests, a PhD in sociology who teaches at Portland State.

I feel fortunate to live in a place that nurtures and celebrates talent in all corners. I'm looking forward to next year.

Moby Dick In Vain? Of Course Not

My labor may not be in vain. There is now a book about why I should slug along in half-hearted compulsion to read Moby Dick. The book is aptly titled Why Read Moby-Dick? You can read a story and find an interview on NPR today.

The reasons not to read Melville are numerous. Do I need a book explaining why I should continue on in my quest, which may take me several years? Perhaps. I'm still in the game. No applause necessary. I figure it's part of my writerly duty.

Take That, Melville

A small, tempting stack at home.

Of course, I haven't finished it yet. I haven't even gone beyond page ... I'm not going to tell you the page number. Moby Dick is a monster. The novel, not the whale itself, which has not made an appearance yet in my classic-lit guilt trip.You are cheering for me, right? Trouble is, I'm easily distracted. By other books. Coffee. Blogrolls. Biscuits. Oh, and revisions.

I get a little anxious thinking of all the books I'm never going to read. Ack. I need air. I want them, need them, would actually like to vacuum them up like crumbled Oreos, but no way is it going to happen. I'm doomed to plod through a book about every three weeks, that is if I am pushing (Roth's book is good right now). The clock is working against me. Oh, and sleep, I need a little shut-eye, too.

Today in Paper Moon Books on Belmont I acted willfully with another book, The End of the Affair, a Graham Greene novel that I've stuffed in my purse (after I paid for it). Wasteful retail therapy. It's not shoes for me, thankyouverymuch. I have a fear that someday someone who matters will ask me what I think of X author, and I'll respond with a dumb look. "I haven't read that writer yet." A completely shameful answer. I'll start practicing: "Is she the one who wrote (insert title)? Because that was a damn good book."

Learning From the Books We Can't Finish

A long, generous rope. My patience is epic when I'm reading a book.

I slaved over Stephen King's The Stand for months as a teen. This summer, I've slugged through 81 pages of Moby Dick, but I'm not quitting. Unfortunately, I had to stop reading a historical novel recently for lack of interest, and frankly, it killed me to admit to it, late one afternoon, with a hand on its cover: "I'm just not into you." Sniff.

I view giving up on a book more as a personal failure. "It's me, not you. You're a good book. I'm the one with the problem." But my thinking has changed a bit as I've been trying to write fiction. I do feel greater empathy with other writers. I want to give them a chance to capture my attention. But with family, my own writing/revisions, social media, laundry, I have to get real.

So I stopped reading Bluebird, or the Invention of Happiness by Sheila Kohler last week. I wanted to like it. The cover was pretty. It coincides with a country and time period which I am also writing about: France, pre-Revolution. I figured I could learn a few historical details for my romance. Plus, Kohler is an award-winning writer. I thought the book would be a pleasure. It wasn't.

I started to let it sit for days. I couldn't recall the names of the main characters. In one chapter, the mother dies, and by the time I had picked up the book again, I'd forgotten that detail. Oops. Kohler's writing is sharp, but the story wasn't compelling me to hang with it. And, this is my take-away: books we don't care for also help our own writing.

I probably wouldn't have understood why her story didn't intrigue me unless I had recently taken a workshop with suspense novelist Robert Dugoni. Dugoni is a popular writer of high-tension books, and he's also on the circuit for writing conference. In his session about creating plots for page turners, he focused on the characters, particularly the protagonist. He suggested several key points for strong stories in regard to the main character:

1. The story must be personal to the protagonist. It must affect him/her on a deep level. Example: If you begin a story with a murder and your main character is the police investigator, why is this particular murder of consequence to him/her? Is the dead person a former lover, a streetwalker who was an informant, the spouse of a colleague who s/he was having an affair with? Make it matter and soon.
2. You must show early what your protagonist wants. To win (what?), to escape (what?), to retrieve (what?), to stop (what?).
3. The character(s) must experience obstacles. Torture them. Put things in their way and more than once. What stands in his/her way, major and minor?

His ideas identified, in part, why I didn't connect with Kohler's story. I wasn't sure what the main character wanted, what the story was going to offer me and why I should care. Granted, she wasn't writing suspense. She was writing historical fiction, where there are usually no smoking guns. But I wanted to feel something for her people, and I couldn't muster much. It could be a matter of taste. Dugoni hated Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. I liked it. He thinks J.K. Rowling is a genius. I haven't felt like picking up her books (maybe next year).

I still feel a little like I failed in my attempt to read Bluebird. That's the compassionate side of me, but it's not typical of most fiction readers. They want the goods, and we have to give them compelling reasons to stick around.

This post was first published on Aug. 31 on Tabitha Blake's blog.

Moby Dick Status

Just typing Moby Dick into a blog post got me more hits. Hey, yeah, I'm still reading it, although I put it down for about three weeks to read Veronica by Nicholas Christopher. I like MB; my speed stinks. I anticipate, yes, probably, looking like, mid-November to finish MB. "What!" you say (or shout). That's how slow I am. And I'll throw in another book or two to gum up the progress.

But I'm courageous to admit my effort will be drawn out, don't you think? I'm courageous to have this blogspot and let you in on the less-than-fascinating life of a hopeful novelist. I'm courageous to even write, period. I love and fear going to libraries and bookstores. Love the possibilities, the treasures underneath the covers, many I'll never open. Fear that I am nameless and swimming in a sea of writers. And most of the retail shelves are backlist. The new stuff never makes it out.

Dash it all. I'll get there. I'm persistent. If a writer doesn't have a pound (or ten) of it in reserve, forget it. Soon, it'll be more than Moby Dick that gets people to hit this blog. But hey, come all.

Reading Moby Dick

A copy of Moby Dick is warming beneath my computer as I type. How does one begin an epic? I'm four pages in, and so far, I'm not intimidated. But frankly, I never wanted to read Moby Dick until recently.

I've started a new novel project, and it's not a romance. Far, far from it. Although it was a great experience to write my first MS (website), I've moved on to wider pastures. Green as before but much wider. More on the new project in a future post.

I am admittedly not well read. I read slower than average (likely) because I don't skimp. I want to understand the meaning of every passage and word. If I don't know a word, I look it up. If I don't understand a passage, I reread it until I do (am not 100% hard-headed). I generally don't write in margins of books, but I dog-ear. I like rereading the good parts. All that slows me down.

Moby Dick, obviously, brings up a lot of connotations. I'm ignoring the negative to read it with an open mind. Heck, the forward, etymology and extracts prior to Chapter 1 were enough to keep me interested as I launched into this endeavor. It'll take me a while. Settle in. Dickens next.

It's a Life

Eat. I write. Use napkin. I write. Do the dishes. I write. Scratch list for grocery. I write. Pour the dog some chow. I write. Find a hard-to-quit book. I write. Sell your worth to everyone you meet. I write. Take it down a notch for humility's sake. I write. Remind yourself its about loving it and nothing else. I write.

The Secrets of a Book Collection

When you walk into a bookstore or library, and you wish you could know all the thoughts of what were in the books, and you think time never allows it, but oh, all those secrets. I want them. Used to be, you could open a pressurized can and the little puff releases and the treasure peels open and you consume it. I've finished reading a book and am looking for another pop. It seems I'm getting pickier because there's only so much time, and so many pops left and I gotta get to all the good ones with all the great secrets before my mind goes, which won't be for another 60 years, but I have to start paying attention now or I won't find the singing lines. What are you reading?