Live, From Texas ... It's Saturday Night!

I love live music. Especially small venue live music.

I'm lucky in that the music I like best and the artists I most respect are not the huge arena and stadium types. I am a lyrics man first. Whether it be wit and cleverness or simply stunning wordsmith I greatly admire a musician than can turn a phrase, create a visual, or spin a good story in only a few minutes. there is no genre that does this better than Texas Country. Red Dirt. Y'allternative. I've heard all these terms used to describe the music I'm talking about.

Americana. Folk. Southern rock. And traditional country. These are the ingredients behind most Texas country. is ay most because really it can be anything that works. There is a freedom and rebellious nature behind this mostly independent and lesser known studio artists. They experiment. Create original sounds and songs. At times actively shun the mainstream. I like and respect that. I incorporated some of this attitude in my upcoming novel, TWISTED ROADS.

While rewriting the book and creating Lucas's character I listened to many such artists, but perhaps none as much as Mike McClure. The song, Haunt Me No More particularly spoke to me and my muse.

So when I heard Mike McClure was playing at a little dive bar down on Old Route 66 I had to go listen to him play. I enjoyed the show but wow was that the weirdest collection of people I've seen gathered in a while.

None more strange this this guy who decided to launch into a game of charades right int he middle of the concert.

Then there was the 70's throwback with his groovy wristband.

Now I like my beer as much as the next guy, and being a rather hairy fellow of substantial girth, I do my share of perspiring, but never have my paws gotten so wet, I couldn't hold onto me Shiner. Should that occur, perhaps I too will adopt the beer wrist band as a way to preserve every last drop of my beverage.

Then there was this guy. His peculiar actions made me video tape him as my immediate though was ... this is great blog fodder.

Concert charades? I'm sure you've all played. I sure hope that is his wife and I haven't unwittingly become a homeworker in the name of humor.

There was the girl with the odd spots on her exposed breasts. The gal with the super power wedgie from hell, a trio of robust women all wearing the same baby blue shirts, the tequila shooting gyrater with the lungs of an elephant, and a pair of I'm-Here-With-My-Sugar-Daddy-ers. I have pictures but in the name of good taste or at least better taste have opted not to post them. Take my word, there were some odd folks present that night.

I will leave y'all with another of my favorite Mike McClure creations ... OUTLAWS PRAYER

The Next Big Thing (fingers crossed)

The name of this blog stemmed from my pursuit for publication.Six years and somewhere int he neighborhood of 100 posts later I am proud to say I have achieved the goal of publication a good many times if you count short stories, non-fiction articles, and of course my memoir, THE FEEDSTORE CHRONICLES. 

But the slippery ladder to success still has many rungs on it yet for me to climb. Today I am happy and to announce that come May I will lift my foot and inch ever so higher in my pursuit with the publication of my first novel. 

These days I am much more active on both Twitter and Facebook than I am here on the blog but I still have a very fond spot in my heart for this blog and my many friends who I came to know via the blogosphere so I decided to announce the details of my novel here first. Several people have tagged me with the NEXT BIG THING meme over the past few months including Kevin Tipple, Peter Dudley, and Avery Debow. All three are talented writers so please go check them out.

As for the meme I sure its name is prophetic.

THE NEXT BIG THING

1: What is the working title of your book?  TWISTED ROADS - Not a working title but the actual title as the novel is slated for a May release. No specific date yet, but I'll let y'all know as soon as I get word from my publisher.

   

2: Where did the idea come from for the book? Much like the characters in the book, this novel has traveled a Twisted Road to publication. I completed the original draft back in 2001. The idea for that version came to me back when I was a high school football referee. Most often I officiated games in tiny out of the way towns here in the Texas Panhandle and being a temporary outsider in such places gives you a unique glimpse at the dynamics of these towns. I began wondering what it would be like to move to such a place. Not by choice but by necessity. At first I wanted a total outsider as my central character, but eventually I decided they would have an easier time adapting as an unknown quantity than say someone who had fled as an exile. What if you had to move back to a close knit small town where few of anyone liked you? From there other character developed and changed over the years in various drafts. The story that will be published in May actually bears little resemblance to the original and now includes four POV characters. It is set in the fictional town of Grand, Texas

 

3: What genre does your book come under? Women's Fiction. I've yet to a write a single story that does not have at least a thread of a love story and TWISTED ROADS is no exception. 

 

4: Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition? This is tough for me. Unlike many writers I do not picture actors or any other real life person when creating my characters. I have my own mental image and rarely do I think any particular actor is the perfect fit. Having said that, there is one character in this book, an old drunk named L.J. that serves a sort of Yoda wisdom guide role for several characters that I feel Kris Kristofferson  would be a perfect for. And the novel has a musical element so that makes him an even better fit. Here are others, though I am not as enamored with those choices.

Angela Ross (the girl with the checkered past returns to Grand after running away 16 years ago)  Actress Tricia Helfer

 

  

Lucas Cahill (Would be singer/songwriter who gave up not only a chance at a stardom but also his career as a lawyer to be near the woman he loves, but can't have in Grand, Texas)

I'm conflicted here because signer Dierks Bentley has the look I imagined for Lucas, but his Nashville sound contradicts with Lucas's brand of Texas music. And really he needs darker hair.

 

Shelly Sampson assumed her role Grand, Texas royalty back with her homecoming victory and in the sixteen years since she had fought desperately to remain atop the town's social ladder. But her looks are fading, her marriage is crumbling and she is hiding one hell of a secret.  

Hilary Swank might work, but again she needs dark hair. 

Jake Sampson a good ol' boy coasting along on the reputation he earned back in High School when he led the Grand Cougars to back-to-back state football titles. These days he can't even score with his own wife. But he would like another go at Angela now that she has returned.

This is another tough one for me. I can see Jake but I can't think of a real close match so I'll go with actor Ryan Hurst.

There are of course more characters but that covers the four point of view characters plus L.J. who I always thought of as Kris Kristofferson.

 5: What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book? Desperation brought her back, love convinced her to linger, but that was before she learned Grand, Texas is a small town, hiding big lies. 

 

6: Is your book self-published, published by an independent publisher, or represented by an agency? TWISTED ROADS is being published by TAG Publishing LLC.

7: How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?Nine months for the first draft, but many drafts and years have slid by since then.

 

8: What other books would you compare this story to within your genre? Jennifer Crusie's Welcome to Temptation comes to mind first. And not really in the genre but there are elements of Larry McMurtry's The Last Picture Show as well.

 

 9: Who or what inspired you to write this book? Not a who and the what was covered up above. But I will add my love of Texas music colored Lucas's character, who was not in the original draft. Once Lucas hit the scene the book took on more life.

 

10: What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest? Life rarely travels the exact path we envision or want, but often the twists and turns along the way lead us to our best moments. The same can be said for this novels as well as the characters it contains. I came with a whisker, okay actually a marketing meeting of of placing this novel with a big New York House a decade ago. At the time I was bummed. Looking back I'm glad it didn't happen. The team at TAG saw potential in the book and urged me to improve upon it. TWISTED ROADS is a better book for it, and I am excited for y'all to read it. Had it been published 10 years ago as it was, I wouldn't be half as proud as I am now.  

Bluebonnets in Blume

The bluebonnet is the state flower of Texas.

Bluebonnet is also the name of a literary award sponsored by the Texas Library Association. Here is a blurb from their website.

 Texas Bluebonnet Award

is a unique program that encourages
reading for pleasure and is aimed at 
students in grades 3-6. Each year, 20 
books are chosen as the “Texas 
 Bluebonnet Award Master List” by 
the TBA selection committee.
If students read a minimum of five 
books from the current master list 
(or have the books read aloud to 
them), they have the opportunity to  
vote for their favorite title during the 
month of January each year. The 
author of the book receiving the most 
votes statewide is declared the winner 
of the Texas Bluebonnet Award. 

I tell you this for two reason. one, I cut my reading teeth on Bluebonnet winners like  Superfudge by Judy Blume and Ramona and Her Father by Beverly Cleary 





As far as I know my school did not participate in the official voting, however my 10 yer old son's school does. And he took the task very serious this year reading a dozen of the nominated books. He was quite proud and excited he would get to vote. Well that and his school's librarian does an excellent job of promoting the reading and the participating in the award by hosting a party for the kids that are eligible to vote. 

The morning of the big event he was downright giddy and I just could resit having some fun with him so I lowered my voice conspiratorial and whispered. "When it comes time to vote go ahead and right down my book, THE FEEDSTORE CHRONICLES."

The look of pure disgust that graced his face was priceless as he said, "No, Dad. The award is for good books."

Of course he hasn;t actualy read my book as he is not old enough to know THAT MUCH about his dear old dad, but he is quite disgusted by the image of that guy pinching that girls butt on the cover.

For the record, I am not sure what book he did vote for but I believe the winner will be announced in April.    
 

This Bucking Sucks

$1.26

 One buck, one quarter, and one penny.

That will buy you about a 1/3 gallon of gas depending where you live. If your rides gets 30mpg that $1.26 will get you 10 miles.

Or you can purchase something in the neighborhood of 1/6 of a movie tickets which equals about 20 minutes of entertainment.

For three more pennies $1.29 you can get yourself a Whopper Jr. at BK, but unless you are 8 that is unlikely to full your gut.

However, you can buy the PRINT copy, an actual hold in your hands book, of my labor. Better than a year's worth of labor if you count rewrites.




That puts my per day profit at 0.0034520547945205 cents per copy sold. Or at least it would if Amazon and my publisher didn't take a cut. I'm not even going to do the math because a third of a cent is woeful enough.

Tell me again why I do this?

Oh yeah, Because I love it.





p.s. The Kindle version is even cheaper at $1.20

  

Life Always Has Its Lumps

Lots of things transpired during my 6 month blog hiatus. Turns out, life rolls on whether you blog about it or not. The high, lows and everything in between. Once upon a time I shared them all with y'all because that is how friends are. And frankly doing so helped hone my writing skills and turn me into a better writer. 

Today I'd like to share some of my writing that also happens to tie into perhaps the most significant event that happened during my blogging hiatus.

I was raised by a single mother that had to work full-time to support me and my brother. I was lucky enough to have a great set of grandparents that also were heavily involved in my life. Many of y'all have read the memoir I wrote about my grandfather's passing in conjunction with the birth and subsequent heart surgery of my oldest son.  Sadly back in December my grandmother joined my grandfather in the everafter. 
  
My Granny Howery shaped who I am as she was second only to my mom in influence in my life. As many of you know I've been working on a comedic memoir/cookbook/manifesto title Lettuce Is The Devil. Until my grandmother's passing I'd never shared one scrap of that project, but Chapter 3 showcased much of how I felt and was influenced by my grandmother so I shared it on Facebook and today I want to share it with those of you who do not follow me there. Today I've added a few photos to enhance the story.

From Chapter 3 of Lettuce Is the Devil : The Culinary Dogma of a Devout Meat Man

If I had a dollar for every time I’ve proclaimed the words, “Lettuce is the Devil,” I’d have enough money to purchase a lush mountain valley, complete with a herd of well-marbled Bonsmara beef cattle and a gurgling stream, teaming with fat and hungry trout and meandering by a nice spacious log cabin, containing two huge copper beer vats -- full to the brim of dark malty ale. Yes, my friends I would be in Meat Man utopia. 

But alas, spreading the gospel has not brought me that kind of fame or fortune to this point, which is why I thank you for purchasing this tomè and helping to remedy that gross injustice. Furthermore, now seems like a fine time for me to point out that this book would make a fine gift to all your friends, family and fellow countrymen, whether they happen to already be a righteous member of the meat loving brethren in need of fellowship, or a sinful, veggie-phyte in dire need of enlightenment.

Now let’s get back to my personal motto, “Lettuce is the Devil.” Upon utterance of these ever-so-truthful words I am met with a wide variety of responses. 

A fellow Meat Man is likely to offer an immediate high-five, or perhaps a military salute, whereas a vegetarian is apt to give a nervous chuckle. Vegans often swoon and faint on the spot, but given their frail and anemic dispositions that is no rare occurrence. 

The vast majority of omnivores respond with a question. “Okay, I’ll bite,” they say. “If lettuce is the devil, what is God?”

God.

The All-Mighty. 

Lord Of All Creation.

No food can live up to such lofty titles, so it is at this point I have to explain that when I say … “Lettuce is the Devil,” I don’t mean in the physical, forked tail and gleaming red eyes kind of way, so much as I mean the ultimate evil -- the epitome of the joy-sapping darkness draining all happiness and color from this world.

Therefore, the Anti-Devil, the divine, the most heavenly edible on this earth is not to be thought of as creator or even as the All-Knowing deity that people the world over turn to in times of need. No, the culinary king of peace, the messiah of mealtime is more of a savory savior. A righteous symbol of all that is good and right in the universe. It makes the dinner place a better place to sit. It heals, soothes, nourishes, and brings hope to even the most horrendous of slop. 

So what is this virtuous vittle? 

Steak -- perhaps, a nicely marinated rib-eye, or maybe even a porterhouse?

Nope. 

I concede steak is a worthy and wholesome meal, as well as a palate pleasing source of nutrition, but not even a perfectly cooked piece of beef can heal everything it touches. Steak does not make everything it comes in contact with taste better.

Bacon then you say? Surely it must the God of meats. After all, it makes everything it touches taste better. People even sprinkles bits of it on salad to improve the taste.

You are correct. Lettuce munchers do use bacon, and let me add what a terrible waste of pig flesh. Bacon, the candy of the meat world can and will help to cover the vile taste of the evil green one, but despite its tasty crunch and satisfying flavor, bacon is not The One, for it lacks the soothing tranquility necessary to bring about change. And the pure and holy food would never allow itself to be associated with bits of salad.

I hear the rumblings of the congregations, the impatience of the doubting Thomases. Not steak. Not Bacon.

They are the dynamic duo. The superheroes of the butcher shop. What meat could possibly be more righteous than either steak or bacon?

Hold onto your cleaver my friends, but the Yahweh of Yummy is not technically even a meat.

The Anti-Devil, The Supreme Culinary Comfort, the Dietary Deity is … Brown Gravy.

Do not be fooled its viscous nature, Brown Gravy's classification as food is steadfast and solid. Beverages are served in glasses, mugs, bottles, cans, and a variety of stemware. Dipping sauces come in dainty little bowls and ramekins. But like the very forefathers that forged this nation, Brown Gravy arrives in a boat.

Brown Gravy is forged from the juice of meat. Its base, the savory fluid, is the very essence of meat. But in a display of tolerance, love, and harmony Brown Gravy combines this delectable nectar with flour, the powdery essence of the wheat plant and transforms into the most holy of foods. Thick and meaty of flavor, and capable of supper time salvation, Brown Gravy can turn a plain ground beef patty into a hamburger steak. Let me say that again. Ground beef into a steak. Remind you of someone famous that once turned water into wine? 

Let me hear an AMEN!

And along those same lines it is said Jesus fed the masses with but a few loaves and a couple of fish. My mother used to do the same thing, only on a smaller scale, by feeding her two hungry teenage boys with half a pound of round steak and a boatload of Brown Gravy. No one knows how to stretch the budget better than a single mom.

But Brown Gravy’s miraculous ability to save does not end there. Picture this … you have a grill full of burgers going when that hot neighbor next door decides to mow her lawn. In a string bikini. Distracted you fail to notice the flare-ups. In a matter of minutes your tasty burgers shrivel and die. You could feed the dry, hockey puck like patties to the dog, but the game is about to start so you don’t have to time to cook yourself more. What is a Meat Man to do? Easy, whip up a quick batch of brown gravy, pour the ambrosia over the burgers and all is well for everyone but Fido.

Or your time of crisis could come as a result of your wife’s hysterectomy, when taking pity on you, your mother-in-law brings over her “World Famous” meatloaf to help feed the family. Until that moment in time you never realized “World Famous” was a synonym for bland, tasteless, and dry, but as your starving kids gaze upon you with those sad, do-we-really-have-to-eat-this eyes you remember that packet of brown gravy just sitting up there in the cupboard waiting to embrace a bad meal and turn it into something good.

I’ll grant you that fresh, totally homemade Brown Gravy, the kind grandma used to make is the best, but part of the beauty of Brown Gravy is that even emergency rations, such as the powder-filled, ready-made packets, offer hope and peace in times of need.

Legend has it that as a small child I’d eat anything. Whirled peas, spinach, purred carrots. My family tells me this was the case until just after my fourth birthday when I got deathly sick, and ran a high temperature for days,. They say I laid there sweating and shivering in that hospital bed. They say I nearly died. They say, the day my fever broke was the last day I was willing to eat vegetables.



Now I suppose there are several ways to explain this change. Perhaps I saw a light and realized life is too damned short to spend eating crap that tastes like weeds and lawn clippings. Perhaps I figured out eating all that “nutritious” stuff damn near killed me. Perhaps a carnivorous angel watched over me and whispered meaty lullabies in my ear while my body fought to survive. Truthfully, I don’t really care what brought about the change, I’m just mighty glad the truth found me, and at such an early age that my body, mind, and taste buds were not tainted beyond repair. 

Not that my family didn't try to perpetuate the damage. As the saying goes, misery loves company so my kinfolk, especially my mom, tried to turn me back to vegetables. For years, I battled my mom and others at mealtime.

You can’t go outside and play until you eat EVERYTHING on your plate.
How are you ever going to grow up big and tall if you don’t eat your veggies?
I don’t care if we have to sit here all night neither one of us is getting up from the table until you’ve eaten those three green beans. 
 
Yep, we had some battles.

My mom won her share, but this book is evidence that in the end, she lost the war.

Lucky for me, I could count on one steady and constant ally. – my Grandmother, or Granny Howery as I called her. 

Granny Howery not only told everyone else to leave me alone, but fearing my stubborn streak would lead to starvation, she went out of her way to make the few things I was willing to eat. Like Brown Gravy. And no one, made Brown Gravy like my Granny Howery.

It didn’t matter what else she cooked my grandmother ALWAYS made a batch of Brown Gravy, special for me. Many a time the family ate casserole, or goulash, or stew while I dipped fresh, hot buttery dinner rolls in Brown Gravy.

“Oh, leave him alone,” my grandmother would say to my mom, aunts, and uncles. “At least he’s eating something.”

Granny Howery steadfastly defended me to others, but in private she’d sometimes whisper, “You really should eat some vegetables. You don’t wanna get rickets.”

To this day I’m not sure what rickets actually is, but I do know I never got them, and at six-foot five, and nearly three-hundred pounds I’m kind of glad I didn’t eat all that stuff, for I do believe I’m as big and strong as anybody needs to be.

Not all Brown Gravy is as good or smooth as Granny Howery’s Brown Gravy, sometimes there are even a few lumps in it, but you know what? Life ain’t always fair, or easy. A Meat Man, however, knows how to deal with the trouble. A Meat Man embraces all situations. A Meat man follows Covenant #3 ...

DON’T LET THE LUMPS SLOW YOU DOWN

Like I said, me and my mom waged many a battle over my Meat Man or in those days, Meat Boy, diet. My dad was even worse, but given the fact he only showed up every six months or so those conflicts were sporadic at best. 

By the time I was seven or eight my mom had begun to realize the cause was lost. She'd mostly given up the fight, except when others were around. I suppose she feared criticism of her parenting skills for allowing me to eat only meat and bread. Maybe she worried they would call CPS and turn her in for not providing proper nutrition. Heck, maybe they all whispered in her ear, “That boy is gonna get rickets if you don’t start making him eat his vegetables.” All I know is the last real skirmish of our war occurred at a family function up in Denver, Colorado. Had we been boxers, it would've been dubbed – The Mile High Melee.

I believe it was a funeral, but I suppose it could’ve been a wedding. Whatever the reason we'd made the six hour trek north and were staying with some cousins. There was lots of extended family around. So many that we kids were not allowed in the kitchen to make our own plates. Given that we were nearly four hundred miles from Granny Howery’s kitchen the chances were slim to none that Brown Gravy would be served, so I was already dreading the meal, even before my mom handed over my plate.

A slice of ham, a dinner roll, some kind of nasty pink marshmallowy casserole stuff, and three green beans. Staring down in horror, I didn’t realize those three green beans were about to be the stuff of legend. Sorry Jack, but no tale of beans, yes even those of Fee-Fi-Fo fame, has spawned as much grief for their owner as that trio of legumes did me.

I ate the ham.
I ate the biscuit.
I fed the pink marshmallow goo to my cousins' Afghan hound, but the big hairy bastard wouldn’t eat so much as one of the green beans.

Man’s best friend my ass. A few years later that same Afghan sunk its teeth into my hand and I have no doubt the bite was retaliation for my repeated attempts to poke those beans down its throat. Never before, or after, did the pooch show even the slightest sign of aggression.

After a while my mom wandered over to the kids table. “You’re not going to go play with the other kids until you eat those green beans.”

I stared at her.
She stared back.

“Hurry up, Travis,” said my cousin Keith. “So we can go outside and play hide and seek.”

I shot him a look.

“Fine, I’ll eat them for you,” he said.

“Oh no you won’t,” chimed in my mom from across the room. “Earlier she hadn’t been paying a damned bit of attention, but now she was in heat seeking missile mode. Maybe she’d seen the Afghan licking his pink lips and realized I’d do anything to avoid eating the undesirable elements on my plate.

I sat there.
I begged.
I pleaded.
I cried.
I pouted.
And eventually got my way --sort of.

I was forced to go to bed extra early, while my cousins ran and played. But, I didn’t eat those three green beans.

The funeral, wedding or whatever it was had been the day before so the next morning the family loaded up a Winnebago and headed into the snowy mountains. This was the late seventies, so the RV was one of those huge, tin-boxes on wheels. Our clan was headed up near Winter Park to go tubing. We kids sat in the back, staring out the Winnebago’s rear window while making rude gestures at the unlucky motorists behind us. All the way up the mountain pass, my cousins teased me about having to go to bed early ... all because I wouldn’t eat three stupid green beans.

Bean boy.
Sprout.
Jolly Green Crybaby.

I took the taunts of my older cousins with all the grace, dignity, and unassuming gusto as any eight-year-old boy would. By whining, crying and complaining to any adult that would listen. But I didn't find so much as a single sympathetic ear as they all too thought I should've eaten those three green beans. Granny Howery had stayed back in Denver with the other senior set.

Things settled down when we reached out destination and we’d been tubing the better part of the day when it happened.

For those who have never gone tubing let me explain this rather simple activity. You take a inflatable inner tube, flop yourself down on it and slide down the mountain.

The laidback tuber prefers the butt in the hole position, as if they were simply floating along a gentle river, whereas the more daring folk assumed a belly down deployment so as to hurdle down the mountainside head first. Either way, getting from point A, at the top of the hill, to point B, several hundred yards down the hill, was relatively easy. Gravity did all the work.

However, getting from point B, back to Point A, was not nearly as convenient. In those days the process involved laying supine on the tube and holding onto a handle which was attached to a cable which pulled you back up. Sounds rather innocent, but after a long day of fun my eight-year-old arms began to tire.

There I was, getting hauled back to the top for the umpteenth time when I simply gave out and let go.

Gravity took over.

I plunged downward.

Sliding feet-first, I went no more than seven or eight feet before I collided with my mom. In a domino case of cause and effect, my snow boots impacted the side of her head, bringing about the release of her tenuous grip. With two tubers hurling down it wasn't long until a slew of folks were gathered up in an avalanche of flesh and rubber heading the wrong direction. Most happened to be related to me, but there were a few unsuspecting and innocent strangers among the disgruntled and battered bodies at the bottom of the hill.

Some were groaning, a few were cussing and most were trying to assess their various bumps, scrapes and bruises when Keith piped up and said, “Dang, it Travis. You should’ve eaten those three green beans.”

Three decades have passed since then. One for each of those green beans and yet, to this day I am known as the-kid-who-wouldn’t-eat-his-veggies. The family still talks about their minor injuries that day as if they lost limbs and shed copious amounts of blood, but they have never found a empathetic listener in me. For I know, had they fed me Brown Gravy rather than a trio of legumes, they could have easily avoided their lumps.

The Right Balance to Write

There are two realities every writer needs to know. So I read a tweet in my twitter stream the other day.

1) You will never make every reader happy.
2)You will never make yourself completely happy. (because the end product never quite lives up to the vision)

I agree on both accounts but the first reality never has plague me much. I can handle both criticism and a discerning viewpoint. My years as a high school football ref here in Texas were great for teaching me that skill. Matter of fact I wish people were more direct and blunt in their criticism for it is easier to see where they are coming from and sometimes even agree and fix the problem when it is clearly stated.

That second reality has plagued me the last few years. Back when I first started writing it was all enthusiasm and bluster. I wrote hoping but not truly expecting others would read my words. As I have found a measure of success over the years I now expect, though I am at times disappointed, that whatever I'm writing will see the light of day. With that expectation comes an innate pressure to make it absolutely perfect. To make the story and characters on paper every bit as alive and vibrant as the they are in the movie running through my brain.

And that my friends is an impossible task. As the author I will always know more about the story and its inhabitants than my readers. I understand this, but I struggle with the paradox. And this struggle has turned me into a very slow writer. Which is why there has been no follow up to THE FEEDSTORE CHRONICLES despite the fine folks over at TAG Publishing urging me on. It is why I migrated away from the blog. It is why I have a handful of projects in various stages of incompleteness.

But I'm not going to let this self imposed pressure define me or stop me from writing. I'm going to find a way to face the reality that no story I ever write will feel totally complete in my mind.

I know I am not alone. Many authors have battled such feelings. Perhaps that is why so many authors are known alcoholics.

Truman Capote once said, "I drink , because that's the only way I can stand it."

Edgar Allan Poe lived to see his 40th birthday but barely and while the exact cause of his death is unknown alcohol, drugs, rabies, suicide, tuberculosis, and other causes have been cited.

O Henry, the master of the twist died an alcoholic at 48.

The list goes on and on. Faulkner, Bukowski, Fitzgerald, Kerouac, and of course Hemingway.

I am not trying to compare myself to any of these writers as they certainly had way more pressure and expectations on their shoulders. I am saying I understand where their compulsion to drink just might have came from. Of course the world is stocked full of drunkards without a drop of literary ambition so perhaps I am reaching here.

I guess this post is as much for myself and my close writing friends as much as anything. May it serve as a reminder perfection is not why we began writing, but excitement. Enthusiasm for telling a good story And that should not change regardless if but a few, or many happen to read our creations.