Category Archives: Paffooney

Idiot Mickey’s Writing Guide

The best writing advice Idiot Mickey can give is… don’t take writing advice from idiots!

Honestly, I am in no position to give out sage advice on having a writing career. Of course I was a writing teacher for more than three decades. I know how to help you pass the Texas State Writing Test, as long as you are taking the version of the test from more than six years ago. I am an author who has won a couple of awards and published seventeen novels and a book of essays and has an eighteenth novel almost ready to publish. But I have not yet earned more than a hundred dollars total over my entire writing career. Still, I can discuss the principles I use to help me mindlessly pursue my fictional career as an author.

1. Always keep writing.

There is no substitute for practice. Whether you are telling a story full of lies, writing bad poetry, or making an essay filled with mindless talkie-talkie, the more you do it, the better you get at it.

2. Write what excites the brat in your brain.

I always write with only one reader in mind, twelve-year-old me. That was two years after I was sexually assaulted, a year before the first man walked on the moon, and four years before my first kiss and the slapping I got for not going about it right.

I know there are other people who will eventually read it. But the messages in my writing are always the ones I needed to hear after I knew how terrible the world could be, but before I knew everything I needed to know to deal with it.

3. I’ve made peace with the fact that I don’t write for money.

I am not a hobbyist. I do, in fact, need to write to live. But I write to satisfy spiritual needs and leave my words behind me like breadcrumbs for whatever Hansel and Gretel are following, hoping to learn from me and avoid the witches while eating at least the frosting from the gingerbread houses they encounter along the way.

I pay the mortgage and buy food with the pension I earned as a teacher, at least until the Republican overlords of Texas decide that retired teachers are basically parasites getting fat off the money that rightfully belongs to stock brokers and businessmen who earned it away from me by having super-rich daddies and mommies. I don’t write for money. I write for the frosting from witch-houses. Oh, and for book reviews.

4. I try all the tricks I learn from reading good books.

Dracula by Bram Stoker is an epistolary novel. That means the story is told through letters, notes, and journal entries. So, I wrote one. The Boy… Forever is a book about a kids’ gang battling an undead Chinese dragon in human form. I based the style of writing the novel on that idea stolen from Bram Stoker.

The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn is a picaresque novel. It follows the adventures of Huck Finn, the picaro, as he drifts from one adventure to the next. I wrote one of those too. In Superchicken, Edward-Andrew Campbell, more commonly known by his superhero nickname, is the picaro who goes from one episode where he has to prove his bravery to the next where he has to prove it all again.

I could give you more examples of that, but I need to move on to the next butterfly of being a writer and finish this goofy advice column.

5. And Finally… I constantly reread my own writing and fix it when I find any of those things that i know to be bad writing.

As a writing teacher I have seen all kinds of terrifically terrible mistakes. Run-on sentences. Sentence fragments. Weasel words. Paragraphs with no bones, and hence, no structure. Using archaic words like “hence.” Suddenly changing to tiny red letters for no apparent reason… As you can see, it takes a while to get rid of superfluous meta-foolferfollies.

Anyway that’s Idiot Mickey’s idiotic advice about a career as a writer. Don’t believe any of it… Unless you really want to.

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Filed under humor, Paffooney, writing teacher

The Devil is in the Details

2020

has been one of the worst years of my life. I say one of… because in 1966 I was sexually assaulted, and a tornado attacked Belmond, Iowa with both of my parents there for work… and me not knowing if they were alive or dead for about eighteen hours.

This has been another dragon of a year. The pandemic took away my substitute teaching job, removing permanently the last chance I had to do a thing I loved.

And, of course, my father has had a series of strokes that took away his memories of his wife and family and has left him dying in hospice care

He had another incident yesterday. They called my mother on her one day she was allowed to visit him (due to the pandemic) and told her not to come in. He hadn’t awakened that day, and they didn’t expect him to make it. So, she started calling all of us to let us know the end had come. Except it hadn’t. He did wake up after all. And Mom had to undo the final notices she had already done.

But he lost some ground. Before he could talk, even though his memory was mostly gone. He would talk about crazy things, like working in a Hardware store in Lubbock and needing to retire because his 89th birthday is this month and he was exhausted from working. (He did somehow remember his birthday accurately, though he has never worked in Lubbock, Texas.) Now he can only mumble incoherently. He is emaciated and loses ground daily.

And it is wearing on my mother who is 87 and has not been so alone since they married in 1956. I fear once he is gone, we will lose her too. I have spent long hours on the phone with mother and sisters for most of three months now. There has been tears and heartache over long-distance phone lines. The Trump Pandemic has kept us hundreds of miles apart.

I am reminded that my life has been pretty good compared to that of Jews and Gypsies and political dissenters in Germany and Poland in the 1930s and 40s. And the plague now is probably better than the Black Death in the Middle Ages. But, in the space of a year, we have reached a point where those comparisons are no longer merely exaggerations.

But bankruptcy, illness, and misfortune have not changed who I am. There is still more in life to be lived. At least until there isn’t. And on that day when I play that final game of chess with the Grim Reaper… Who knows? There’s still a chance I might win the game.

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Filed under battling depression, family, feeling sorry for myself, Paffooney

AeroQuest 4… Canto 113

Canto 113 – Prisoners on the Shadowcat

Ham sat at the pilot-seat controls aboard his safari ship, looking out the main portal into the cavernous docking bay of the Bregohelma.  It was depressing.  Trying to suicidally destroy his enemy, he had become a mere prisoner instead.

Admiral Tang didn’t see him as anything more than a flea that needed to be slapped.  He was glad he and his crew were not dead, but he was irked by the fact that he had been far less of a factor in the Battle of Coventry than had his friend the Goofer.  And worse, now Goofy and all those potential allies on Coventry were all dead too.  What step comes next?

There was activity in the docking bay.  Armed men in combat armor were filing in, keeping together in highly organized tactical formations.  Dang!  Imperial Marines!  There would probably be little hope of surviving this encounter.

“Boss!  Yo, Boss!”  Sinbadh came stumbling into the bridge of the ship with an armload of unattached plasma gun parts.  “We gots plenty o’ buccaneers ready to board us!”

“Yes, I know.  Stow the guns away.  We are gonna meekly surrender and hope they don’t kill us.”

“Blimey, Cap’n!  We surrender without a fight?”

“Yes, my friend.  The Madonna is pregnant.  Sahleck is a little boy.  Professor Marou is really, really old…”

“Not that old!” I said as I revealed myself from where I had secretly been watching Ham from behind the bulkhead.

“Hey, Professor, what were you doing hiding back there?” Ham asked.

“Well, I…”  I tried to think of a quick excuse.  It suddenly wasn’t necessary.

“Ham Aero!  Han Ferrari!  Come out!” came the strangely compelling voice.  We all felt a deep black fear swelling in our guts and pulling us painfully toward the voice like a nose ring attached to a chain being pulled by a steady, relentless strength.

“Good Lord!” swore Ham.  “It’s Admiral Tang, and he has us in his power.”

Ham was right.  It was Tang’s special Psion power.  He could manipulate us with our own fear.  He controlled us completely.

“Don’t shoot!  We’re coming out!”  I heard Duke Ferrari saying it from the exit ramp beneath us.  And there was no choice.  We filed out of the Shadowcat like puppets on strings.

Admiral Brona Tang was not only the scariest being I had ever met up to that point in my life, he was also the biggest.  He was easily six foot eleven, and encased from head to toe in powered battle armor.  The armor was even a bright red color, as if to emphasize the blood he had spilled and the blood he still intended to spill.  His face was a red mask with black eye portals, an alien, evil sort of face.  He also wore a hat on top of the helmet, a wide-brimmed red hat that looked vaguely like the kind of hat worn by Catholic friars in the long-ago Dark Ages, the fourteenth century.  In fact, as I thought of it, images of the Inquisition and power-mad Cardinals leapt to mind.

“Good.  You have decided to relent and surrender.”  The voice was electronically enhanced and almost sounded like three voices in one to me.

Ham, Duke Ferrari, and I stood in front, as if to shield the others.  Sinbadh stood behind with the poor Nebulon Madonna on one side, and the trembling Lupin boy, Sahleck Kim on the other side.  The wolfman put a hairy paw around the shoulders of each.

“Neither you nor your brother can escape me, Ham.  I have you in my possession, and one of my most trusted agents is by Ged’s side, reporting his every move.  Your brother is even now beginning the quest that will dispose of that Ancient device that proved to be such a thorn in my side here at the Battle of Coventry.”  Tang laughed.  “I couldn’t ask for a sweeter vengeance.”

“Who… who is the agent?” asked Ham, against the force of Tang’s terrible will.

            “Ah, no!  It’s not that easy!  How do I know you haven’t manifested some terrible Psion power too by now?  It runs in our families.  Mine comes from my father.  Your brother’s is from Mammy Aero, a powerful Psion as well known to my father as Ged.  My mind is shielded, and I will tell you nothing.”

“Aren’t villains always supposed to brag about their evil plots to take over the galaxy?” I asked sarcastically.

Tang laughed again.  “I know you too, Dr. Marou.  I learned of you from those accursed Time Knights.  You are the one person here that future history books guarantee had to survive this encounter.  The same is not true for the rest.  Most of you will live no longer than the coming battle against Tron Blastarr at Outpost.  Oops!  Did I give something away?  How about this; I am committing what remains of the entire Imperial Navy to that battle.  I am going to win it and put an end to any possible time line where your so-called good guys can win.  The Imperium has kept order for hundreds of years.  It will last for thousands more.”

Sinbadh winked his doggy eye at me.  “Clever how ye got him to spill the ol’ soliloquy there, Doc.” he whispered.  “Tip o’ me hat to ye.”

“What will you do with us, then?” asked Ham.

“You will sit right here in the docking bay, prisoners aboard your own ship.  I am told I cannot destroy you tonight.  It has to wait for the battle.  But if I can outthink and kill a Time Knight, I can kill you.”

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The 1957 Pink and White Mercury of Imagination

mercury_1957_monterey_pnk_02

Yes, she was a real car.  My dad bought her in the 60’s as a used car.  But she was a hardtop, not a convertible.  She was the car he drove to work every day in Belmond.  We called it the “Pink and White Pumpkin”, my sisters and I, referring to the pumpkin in Cinderella which the fairy godmother changes into a coach.  But it would only later become the car of my dreams.

mercury_19573120532728_a1bc76c091

You see, she was killed in the Belmond Tornado of 1966.  Her windows were all broken out and her frame was twisted.  So the pictures of her, though they look exactly like my memories of her, minus the rust spots, are not actual pictures of the car in question.  Our next door neighbor, Stan the Truck Man, was a mechanic always on the lookout for salvage parts.  He took her apart piece by piece while she sat in our driveway.  We continued to sit in her and play in her until all that was left was the bare frame.  My friend Werner told me for the first time about the facts of life and where babies really came from in the back seat while she was being gradually dismantled.  Of course, I was nine at the time and didn’t really believe him.  How could that grossness actually be true?

the-lady

But she still lives, that old dream car…  She is the reason that I objectify my imagination as a ship with pink sails.  My daydreams, my creative fantasies, and those long, lingering plays in the theater of my imagination as I am drifting off to sleep all start in the three-masted sailing ship with pink sails.  And that dream image was born from the Pink and White Pumpkin.  I have sailed in her to many an exotic place… even other planets.  And when I die, she will take me home again.

 

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Filed under goofiness, humor, imagination, nostalgia, Paffooney, strange and wonderful ideas about life, telling lies

After the Last Chapter

Yes, I have reached a snag in the novel-writing process. I am definitely at the end of the story. The crisis point is past. The characters who have to die to resolve the central conflict are dead. The characters who needed to be rescued are already rescued. I have probably less than a thousand words left to write. But I still have to tie the knot in the end of the plot to keep all the main ideas and themes from pouring out and floating away with the wind. I need the final scene and a memorable end line.

And, I am ill. My chest hurts. My head hurts. And I have needed to sleep every time I have settled down to write it. What happens if the old Grim Reaper shows up again with a sharper scythe than he had on his last visit?

I don’t know

what comes after the last chapter. I don’t know it for the book I am writing, nor for the life I am living.

I freely admit that I have no confidence whatsoever that after I die I will wake up in Heaven. Baptists have told me I will go to Hell for not believing what they believe. The Jehovah’s Witnesses have assured me that there is no Hell for me to wake up in and be eternally tortured in. But they also tell me I get no Paradise forever because I stopped believing what they believe. I have repeatedly said in writing and conversations that I am a Christian Existentialist. And I have explained that I think that makes me an atheist who believes in God. That leaves me, more or less, as an agnostic, not knowing anything until it’s proven to me, and realizing that nobody can prove it besides the God that I believe in but who doesn’t exist.

Our lives are like a book.

Things happen before the book is opened and you begin to read, but they are not technically something that the book contains within it. And when the book is finished and you close it, the story is complete. But the book still exists even when it’s closed.

I am not concerned about the fact that my story will end. But with both the book I am working on and the life I am living still unfinished… well, I hope both stories will be finished.

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Filed under feeling sorry for myself, health, humor, illness, novel writing, Paffooney, religion

Cardboard Castle Art

Slaying a blue dragon wasn’t the biggest event at the cardboard castle, but it was among the most memorable.
All sorts of people show up to parties I hold there. Of course, the guests don’t really have a choice in the matter.
Celebrities make an appearance if I can afford them. Mickey and Minnie cost me less than five dollars.
The place isn’t actually Hogwarts. It’s made of cardboard. I believe Hogwarts was made of polystyrene.
All sorts of heroes try to save the day in the cardboard castle.
Heroes at the cardboard castle are made, not born.
Sometimes the cast is a bit crazy.’
It is possible to take the Snowball Express from the castle to Toonerville. Mickey and Minnie are always ready to jump in front of the camera.
Of course, a few evil wizards are essential to the game.
Voldemort may have mistaken the place for Hogwarts too.
Sometimes I question the prevailing religion at cardboard castle. But Princess Jasmine seems to be fine with it.
But the old castle is a bit run down in parts of it. Maybe Princess Aurora can convince the Prince to invest in a few wall repairs.

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Filed under artwork, humor, making cardboard castles, Paffooney, photo paffoonies, playing with toys

The Wizard in his Keep

And now…

The story is coming to an end. I am halfway through the last chapter. The climax of the plot is now finished and the final resolutions of the plot are being concluded. And so, soon you will be able to find this book on Amazon and see for yourself if the amazing levels of nonsense and fantastical lunacy were worth the wait.

A fatal car accident seriously alters the lives of the three Brown children, Daisy, Johnny, and Mortie. But they are rescued by their mysterious “Uncle Miltie”, a video-game designer who is somehow involved with the military, the CIA, and other strange things that may have caused their parents’ deaths. And Uncle Miltie takes them to live, not in his house, but inside the weird virtual reality game he has had a hand in creating. And something there is going terribly wrong.

The video game they now live in is called The Legend of Hoodwink. And it is entirely possible that they will become trapped there forever. At least the main characters of the game are nice. Hoodwink is the boy hero who looks pretty good to Daisy, and his sidekick is Babbles, the Kelpie who can’t help but talk so fast you can’t really understand him.

I am ill as I write this, but lately that has been the story of my life too. A life or death game with rules you have to learn as you go, and a bizarre place where what is real and what is an illusion may prove to be exactly the same thing.

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AeroQuest 4…

Canto 112 – The Megadeath’s New Super Powers

“Let me understand what you stupid… stupid people are saying!  You left the defenses of Outpost and Don’t Go Here to go galivanting all the way to Coventry?  And in only three days?”  King Killer had never shouted so loudly nor had a face so red as it was in that meeting.

“Dude!  It woulda been two days if we hadn’a parked invisioble to watch the battle.”  Nikki Sixx appeared shocked that Admiral Killer was so mad.

“Wha… ?” burbled Cold Death stupidly.

“Chill oh soon-to-explode-from-rage dude,” said Vince Niell from his safe place behind mirrored sunglasses.  “We followed the orders of the Hooey-dude, man.  We know how he worked for you in escaping the Imperium, bro.  We just assumed that you gave him the orders he gave us, dude.”

“Vince, grab some whiskey.  I need you skunk-levels of drunk so I can understand every word you are saying.”

Besides the Admiral and the crew of the Megadeath, Admiral Tron and his wife Maggie the Knife were also present.  Maggie, taking a cue from Admiral Killer went to the bar in the back of the conference room and grabbed two bottles of Mundoploovian Suicide Ale to help make Vince more understandable.

“And where was Captain Lee in all of this, Gentlemen?” asked Tron sounding dangerous.

“Oh, he weren’t with us,” said Nikki Sixx.  “He and Pamela left the ship to go be rock and roll stars to the stars!  Hooey said they was gonna be megastars!”

“So, he officially abandoned his command and went AWOL?”

“Um, yep, thass about the size of it, boss,” said Nikki.  Cold Death nodded stupidly but vigorously to back him up on that.

Maggie put the Suicide Ale down in front of Vince.  Then she stuck her shiny knife in the table for emphasis.  This particular table had numerous decorations from years’ worth of Maggie’s pointed emphasis.

Vince drank quickly and narrowly avoided vomiting out his liver.  He became instantly drunk.

“So, tell me this, Vince, dude…  How the hell did you make a round trip to Coventry and back in only three days?” King Killer asked.

“Your friend the time knight brought his little time machine booth device on our ship, interfacing his chrono-circuits with the Megadeath’s Ancient computer brain.  It reduced a three week trip to two days via a built in time-accelerator that we knew nothing about until the good Doctor Hooey showed us it’s enhanced space-travel ability.”

“And do you think these other Ancient-built space ships are capable of doing the same thing?”

“I am unsure of the probability… but I believe I can find the device in the other ships if they are indeed present.”

“Okay, Vince,” said Tron, “what was this other nonsense about watching the battle invisioble?”

“Well, of course, the mispronounced word was intended to represent invisibility.  The Megadeath, it seems, has a most efficacious ability to go into stealth mode.  We delivered the good Doctor Hooey into the Bregohelma with his timeship.  And then, per his specific instructions, we became mere observers of the gnarly… err…” Vince had to take another swallow of Suicide Ale.  “… most great and glorious battle ever seen since Ancient times ended.”

“Okay, tell us what happened,” demanded Admiral Killer.

“Well, sirs, if it please you, the ship we rendezvoused with was the stolen Apatosaurus Battleship.”

“Did you attack on sight?”

“Of course not, sirs.  Our orders were to deliver the good Doctor Hooey to the battleship.  He was supposed to meet up with the Lizard Lady there and help her destroy the Bregohelma.”

Everybody gasped at the name of Admiral Tang’s flagship, including Cold Death who had forgotten he knew all of this particular battle story already.

“How were they going to do that with one battleship against Tang’s whole fleet?”

“They were trying to convince the Imperials that they were going to turn over the stolen Ancient tech, since Lizard Lady portrayed herself falsely as an Imperial spy.  And when the two ships docked, the Apatosaurus Battleship would blow up and take out the Bregohelma along with it.”

“Did the plan work?”  Maggie asked, obviously hoping that it would in spite of having been told the final outcome already.

“Naturally, it did not.  But this must’ve been a part of the plan all along, because we were asked to remain invisibly as observers to the battle that followed.”

“That’s when you saw Ham’s safari ship and the First Half-Century?” asked Tron.

“Of course, sir.  They flew in bravely to take on Tang’s entire fleet.”

“And what happened after that?”

“Well, it was obvious that the First Half-Century was also equipped with some kind of Ancient weapon system of immense power.  The thing went off and destroyed all of the Imperial ships but one, the Bregohelma.  But Tang’s ship, as well as the two attacking ships were all rendered powerless and completely damaged when something caused the Ancient weapon to target the planet and blast away about a billion people in the planet’s largest three cities.  It was a horrible tragedy.  And the three starships were dead in space for a while.”

“Why didn’t you step in at that point and finish off the Bregohelma?”

“We couldn’t.  Dr. Hooey told us not to interfere with the battle or we could alter time-lines and keep our side from winning the upcoming Battle of Outpost.

“Bummer!” said Maggie.

“Naw!  Itsa good thing, Mama,” said Cold Death, risking Maggie’s notorious wrath.  “Itsa meanin’ we is gonna win dat battle what ain’t happenna yet.”

“Can you give that man a Suicide Ale too please?” asked Tron.

“To make him talk better?”

“No.  To kill him if possible.”

“Continue, please, Vince.  What happened to Ham Aero and the other ship?”

“Admiral Tang’s ship moved first.  They completely loaded the little safari ship on board their ship and took off at a slow crawl.  The First Half Century hadn’t gotten more than life support working when we had to leave to bring this report to you.”

“I wish you would’ve at least rescued Ham and the Duke,” said Admiral Killer.

“Doctor Hooey specifically told us not to.”

“Oh.  Did Hooey survive the explosion, do you know?”

“No.  As far as we know, both he and Lizard Lady are now dead.”

“I really don’t know if that’s good news or bad news,” said Admiral Tron.  “It is good that such a large part of the Imperial Navy was destroyed.  But we may have lost the heart of the rebellion.  And what are we gonna tell Ged Aero?”

“The truth, I would surmise,” said Vince Niell, shortly before passing out dead drunk.  Cold Death finished his ale.  Sat down next to Niell.  And passed out too… where he began snoring loudly, thus proving that he was not, unfortunately, dead.

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Filed under aliens, humor, novel, NOVEL WRITING, Paffooney, satire, science fiction

Debussy Reverie

Some Sunday thoughts require the right music.

Some Sunday thoughts actually are music.

rev·er·ie

/ˈrev(ə)rē/

noun

  • 1.a state of being pleasantly lost in one’s thoughts; a daydream:”a knock on the door broke her reverie

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I had originally thought to call this post “A Walk with God.” But that would probably offend my Christian friends and alienate my Jehovah’s Witness wife. It would bother my intellectual atheist friends too. Because they know I claim to be a Christian Existentialist, in other words, “an atheist who believes in God.” Agnostics are agnostics because they literally know they don’t know what is true and what is merely made up by men. And not knowing offends most people in the Western world.

But Debussy’s Reverie is a quiet walk in the sacred woods, the forest of as-yet-uncovered truths.

And that is what I need today. A quiet walk in the woods… when no literal woods are available.

This pandemic has been hard on me. I am a prisoner in my room at home most days. My soul is in darkness, knowing that the end could be right around the corner. I am susceptible to the disease. It didn’t slay me on its first visit to the house, but that doesn’t mean it can’t get me on the second or third visit. Health experts are expecting a resurgence of up to 3,000 deaths per day before the end of the year. If I am relying on luck to avoid it, luck will run out.

I am not afraid to die. I have no regrets. But I have been in a reverie about what has been in the past, what might have been, and what yet may be… if only I am granted the time.

And, as always, I feel like I have writing yet to do. I am about to finish The Wizard in his Keep. And I have stories beyond that to complete if I may.

But the most important thing right now is having time to think. Time for Reverie. And reflections upon the great symphony of life as it continues to play on… with or without me.

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The World Does Not See Me

The world does not see me. I am invisible. I could invade your planet and the world would never know it… or care.

I have told my stories, sung my songs, and raised my family in the shadows while the world was unaware.

I’ve shaped lives from other cultures, and made myself a home in the quiet places there.

My imagination has been soaring, and I create things in mid-air.

And I’ve not forgotten heartland dreams, and the good lands all so fair.

And the world just does not see me, though my eyes, they are upon it as it’s around me everywhere.

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Filed under artwork, autobiography, Paffooney, poem