Category Archives: Paffooney

Completing a Collection

I was foolish enough to share with you all in my post “The Quest for Pinkie Pie” that my insane Hoarder’s Disorder has led me into a world full of Bronies

This is a really terrible first fan art of My Little Pony.  I gave Pinkie Pie insane cereal killer eyes, and Rainbow Dash is too fat to fly.

This is a really terrible first fan art of My Little Pony. I gave Pinkie Pie insane cereal killer eyes, and Rainbow Dash is too fat to fly.

(seriously maladjusted men who watch My Little Pony; Friendship is Magic and love it, making fan art and buying dolls).  I have been on a quest to put together a complete set of MLP’s and an accompanying set of Equestria Girls (ponies put through a magic portal that turns them into teenage mutant horse-girls).

I have been making steady progress since my mother sent me $50 in a gift card for Christmas and I blew it all on ponies.  I would like to report that I have finally brought this terrible mental illness thing to a proper conclusion.  (And, no, I did not explain the problem to a psychiatrist or anything.)  I completed the collection.  Now I no longer have to buy any more of the terrible things.

I was able to find Pinkie Pie and Fluttershy both together on the bargain shelf at Walmart.  Both were less than fifteen dollars.  Together they didn’t bust my monthly maximum.  So I put together the entire set of twelve and the compulsion has begun to dissipate.

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Now the only thing left to do is play with them.

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Filed under doll collecting, humor, Paffooney

Work in Progress

The book I am writing at the present time is for the moment called Stardusters and Lizard Men.  It follows the alien characters from Catch a Falling Star as they journey home after the failed invasion of Earth.  They have with them three Earthers, humans born on Earth, who have come along on the journey because they have fallen in love with members of the alien Telleron race of amphibianoids.  In this sample chapter, Davalon and the Telleron tadpoles, along with the Earther farm couple, the Morrells, who have been transformed into adults in child-like bodies, have made contact with a native lizard-person, a little lizard-girl named Sizzahl, and are trying to help save the dying planet of the lizard people.  Galtorr Prime, the dying world the Tellerons accidentally arrived at, is war-torn and nearly stripped of its livable environment.  Sizzahl is a child prodigy and is working inside the Bio-Dome of her late parents to try to solve the environmental crisis and save her planet.

Galtorr Primexvx

Canto Twenty-Seven – In the Bio-Dome

The delicate creature was four-legged and long-necked.  It looked a lot like Bambi to Alden if Bambi had been a reptilian creature with hexagonal violet-colored scales all over it.  It had large indigo eyes that made it look fawn-like and vulnerable.

“It is called a zhar-doe,” said Sizzahl sadly.  She was standing next to Alden and Gracie with the creature in front of them.  She reached out and stroked the side of its Bambi-like head fondly.  “It is the last of its kind, and when it dies, its species will be extinct.”

“Is Zahr-Doe its name?” Gracie asked.

“It is the species.  Why would you give it a name?  When we had vast herds of them, they were a domesticated food animal.”

“Will you eat this one?” asked Alden.   He still had his hands clamped over his private parts, but he reached out with his left hand to touch the thing’s velvety-soft ear.  It was an exquisitely beautiful creature.

“Only if it is a last resort.  It is too beautiful and precious to be butchered without great need.”  Sizzahl was petting the creature tenderly.  Hard to believe it didn’t have a name already.

“Is there no way the species can be saved?” asked Gracie, stroking the creatures neck with both hands.  Alden had loved Gracie since the moment he had first met her, but now, looking at her standing in the Bio-dome’s artificial forest of dying trees and plants petting the Bambi-thing, he noticed how lovely she looked as a completely nude young girl in the middle of a browning pastoral setting.  He was attracted to her in spite of the fact that her body was now a child’s body, but it was so much more than that.  Gracie’s simple, loving concern for a gentle creature of another world… well, it was looking more directly at what he knew to be Gracie’s soul than he had ever done before.

“I have the cloning technology at my finger tips,” said Sizzahl.  “This place was my parents’ attempt to save our natural world from the predations of the greedy and ruthless creatures that dominated our society.  But, the question becomes, should we save the species by cloning it if we cannot feed it and the new creatures will only starve, suffer, and die?”

“We brought you the plants you needed, didn’t we?” Alden asked.

“You did.  I thought being on the space station would protect those plants and I could bring them here to grow new food sources.”

“Is something wrong with the plants?”  Alden shivered, not with the cold of being completely naked in an alien place, but with a sudden fear that he already knew the answer to the question.

“They are all blighted and dying.  I asked the Tellerons to verify it with the instruments, but I’m nearly certain.”  Sizzahl was actually crying.  Alden saw tears in her snake’s eyes.  It was difficult to comprehend a lizard-person crying, but the little-girl alien was so human-like as she was crying…

Gracie, bless her Iowegian heart, wrapped both her arms around Sizzahl and held her in a comforting hug.

“My goodness, girl,” Gracie said, “You are warm and soft to hug.  You are more like us than the Tellerons are.”

“My people are warm-blooded just like yours.  We are not really reptiles, you know.  We are more saurian… like your birds or your dinosaurs on planet Earth.”

“How do you know so much about Earth?” asked Alden.

“Well, I am a genius among my kind.  I have what you would call an I.Q. of about 195 in the terms of your science on Earth.  Besides, the alien visitors that used to come to our world, like the Sylvani or the Zeta Reticulans have brought specimens of your people here for study and to perform certain special tasks that aided in their off-world agendas.”

“Earth people have been to your planet before?” asked Gracie, cuddling the lizard-girl close to her warm heart.

“Oh, yes, and I imagine some of our people have been taken to your world too.  The governments of both our planets have been contacted long, long ago by space-faring races.”

“Really?”  Alden was skeptical.  Walter Cronkite and Bryant Gumbel never said anything about aliens contacting the government.  “Why haven’t we been told about this?”

“Judging by your television broadcasts, I believe your government believes the average person is too stupid and easily upset to comprehend the truth.  Our leaders were like that for many years before your leaders even were told.  There will come a crisis point one day, though, that people will have to find out.  Here it came shortly before we started to destroy ourselves with unending war for profit.”

“You are going to save your planet, aren’t you, Sizzahl?” Gracie asked, suddenly seeming alarmed.

“I don’t know.  Sometimes I think they are not worth saving.  Sometimes a people on a planet can become so self-centered and terrible that they don’t deserve to survive.  The alien visitors gave up on us a few years ago and left.”

“We are alien visitors,” said Alden, “and we aren’t giving up on you yet.”

“You are not afraid I might eat you or take advantage of you?”

“Of course not,” said Gracie.  She patted Sizzahl on the back in a way Alden knew was meant to be reassuring.

“I do want to take advantage of you, though.”

“Oh?” asked Gracie.  “How?”

“Your DNA is somewhat compatible with my own.  Not yours, Grace, because you are a simuloid now, not a real person.  I want some of Alden’s DNA to use to make a fusion race, half Galtorrian, half Earth human.”

“You mean you want me to make babies with you?” Alden gasped.

“Not the way you think.   I want to make them in a sealed jar and grow them in vats.  I will just need samples of your blood and tissues.  It doesn’t even need to hurt.”

Alden felt a bit shaken.  Could he do that?  Or was Sizzahl right to suggest her people deserved to go extinct?  And what did she mean when she suggested Gracie wasn’t real?

At that moment, Davalon and Tanith came in looking sad.  Both were naked.  Both were holding each other’s hands.

“We have bad news,” said Tanith.  “The plants we saved from the space station are all diseased according to the instruments.”

Sizzahl only nodded, then buried her scale-covered face in Gracie’s shoulder to cry more loudly.

*****

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Filed under humor, NOVEL WRITING, Paffooney, science fiction

Milestones

post-milestone-500-2xOkay, now I have gone and done it… 500 times I have written something and posted it on WordPress.  I have officially crossed into that territory known as obsessive-compulsive writing.  I blogged before when I was a substitute teacher waiting for classroom wounds to heal back in 2005-2007 (Oh, and landing a new teaching job after the Wicked Witch of Creek Valley made me temporarily radioactive… another story for another day).  I blogged on Xanga.  I have shared blogs on Google+ and Facebook as well, but nowhere have I ever piled up this much foo-bah and wildly wasted wordage as I have here.  So, why am I doing it? Because I care about writing… I need to do it every day… and just like I taught English students for 31 years in middle school and high school, the circle of writing is not complete if you don’t share it.  I had to close a lot of circles to get where I am now.

There are other things I have accomplished as well.  I have paffoonied all over my blog with cartoons and drawings and scribbles and foofy drivel.  I have made up words like “foofy” and “paffooney” and made them a regular part of a Mickian lexicon.  (Mickian = distinctly a part of the overall Mickey Universe, or Mickiverse, if you will.)  I have stunk up the place with numerous word-farts in the form of parenthetic expressions (set off with parenthesis) (and I bet you thought that was due to random brain spasms occurring in all the wrong places rather than a thought-out part of a conscious style… well, you may have been right about that.)  I have shared the artwork and literature and movies and even the music that I love with you, hoping to pass on some of the same infatuations that informed my inner thought-life and made me the mess that I am.

Let me briefly re-use some of my artwork that has been posted here to give you a cruel aftertaste of what I have been up to here in this blog;

girl n birdtree time bannersuperchick_novelBeauty class Miss McoverLong Ago sunnyface2SpaceheartScraggles

So far all this blogging and posting has lead to a lot of me getting spread across tiny slices of the internet like warm, squishy butter on super-absorbent toast.  So far it doesn’t seem that the taste of it has seriously offended anyone’s palate.  One never knows, however, what tomorrow will bring.  What will I post tomorrow?  I have no idea.  But unless I drop dead tonight, I will post tomorrow.  I have made it my goal to post every single day of 2015.  I have not let down yet, four months in… so you should really brace yourself.  You may have to endure a lot more.

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Filed under aliens, announcement, humor, Paffooney

First Novel Yuckishness

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One of my biggest regrets as a writer is that I started doing it before I had any earthly idea how to do it well.  I know as a former writing teacher that you have to start by starting and you learn to write better by writing.  There is no substitute for that redundantly repetitive redundancy of practice.  And that is the mistake I made with the first novel… not the first one I ever wrote… the first one I ever tried to get published.  I finished slapping the stupid thing together in primarily superfluous paragraphs and short chapters, and then sent it off to a publisher before I lost all willpower to try.  The mistake was in choosing a publisher that was revolutionizing the publishing industry with cheap-o flim-flam tricks.  If you have ever considered Publish America as an option… don’t.  They work well as a way to get your students published and excite them about writing, but you can send them a bag full of grocery lists and they will publish it, telling you they have no intention of changing your unique style… all editing is left up to you.  It is a crap guarantee that guarantees crap, no matter how good a writer you are.  If I had wasted one of my good babies on the venture, they would own the rights to it for seven years.  They do diddly-do-dah to promote or market your book.  Everything is up to the author.  They don’t even read the book.  They make some effort to contact your family and people who know you and hawk the book at ridiculous prices that I wouldn’t pay for Hemingway and are satisfied with the profits they make selling a dozen copies.

Now that the term of my contract is up, I have to decide what to do with this novel.  It is a hog-slop mish-mash of words and weirdness that no one could every truly appreciate as literature.  It is juvenile blather that I would be truly ashamed of if more people had bought it and wasted their time reading it.  (I don’t regret my friends and relatives reading it.  They deserve that fate for one thing or another over the years.  No one is without sin.)

Aeroq1 Aeroq2 Aeroq3 Aeroq4 Aeroq6 Aeroq5  You can see that I have made some attempts already to adapt it into something somewhat more-or-less interesting by using my rights to adaptation to make it into a graphic novel (These panels are merely rough draft form.  If I do this, it will end up in a much more finished, web-comic form.)  I am able to reclaim the entire book as of October of 2014.  I just haven’t decided yet if it is worth the effort.

It was a learning experience to do this Aeroquest book-like thing.  I learned a lot about what not to do.  But I did end up $12 dollars in the black from the experience.  The second book was a much more expensive proposition.  I paid I-Universe for editing, proofreading, and training in marketing and promotion.  They took the time to teach me all the proper steps and how to work towards eventual success.  They even set up this blog for me and trained me how to do it.   But I had to pay them.  At this point, three years later, I am still in the red with this book.  And they never mention that to be a success as an Indie novelist, you have to write more than one of these danged novel-things.  Hoo-boy!  But I am on it.  I will write to my last breath, and I guarantee you that I will tell some stories.

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Filed under humor, NOVEL WRITING, Paffooney

Family Stories

If you’ve read any of my posts so far in my thousand-mile journey as a blogger, you have probably already noticed that when I write, I am definitely a story-teller.  I can’t go a day without telling somebody a story.  I usually tell lies when I write because I tell fiction stories.  The names of the characters are never the real names.  Sometimes the events are not the real events.  That’s what fiction writers do.  We tell lies.girl n bird  It can’t be helped.  But in the midst of those lies, the truth usually comes out.  The characters and events are shadows of what is real.  But the feelings, the understandings, the moments of revelation… those are essential truth… the truth that fuels the very mind of God.

One important revelation happened to me yesterday, a black day that added to a long list of very black days that buffet me with heartache and worry as I struggle to raise children in a system designed to defeat me.  We were in a local restaurant after a long day of school withdrawals and doctor’s visits, Henry, the Princess, and I.  I won’t call the restaurant by name because that would give Taco Bueno free advertising that.they didn’t pay for… um, okay… that was a mistake.  But I’ll probably remember to edit that out later… probably.  Anyway, we were sitting at a booth in Taco Good-o waiting for our bean burritos, chips, and dip, and the Princess, whom you sorta see in the paffooney today, began telling me about Atlantis Alpha.  It seems Alpha team is having trouble keeping all their members alive.  The leader has a brother and a sister.  She believes they have both been killed, but it turns out that the brother is actually alive…  Well, you get the idea.  The Princess is writing a script for an animated cartoon she means to produce in the future with her friends in Anime Club at school.  It all sounds very tense and exciting.  And it means that just like me, she is a story-teller, bent on relating something important through science fiction and fantasy.cudgels car

I am just guessing here, but I believe the story-teller gene came from my Grandpa.  He was my mother’s father and he was a farmer who could tell a funny story with the best of them.  He used to tell us stories all the time about the infamous Dolly O’Malley and her husband, Shorty the dwarf.  It was my understanding that these were real people.  There were houses in the southeast corner of our little Iowa farm-town, the infamous Ghost House was one of them, that were collectively known as Dolly-ville because she had purchased all four at some point, probably with the idea of profiting off real estate, and had let them all collectively rot into ruin.  But, as with most of my Grandpa’s stories, their sheer veracity was always in question.  Not only did I get my penchant for changing names (and I have used no real names in this story… forget about the Taco Bueno thing), but I got my knack for embellishing to make it funnier from him too.  The story I remember laughing about the hardest was the time that Dolly and Shorty had gotten into an argument about politics.  Apparently Shorty was using a string of bad words against some stupid thing that President Truman had done, when Dolly, not known for using color-free language herself, got tired of his invective and physically threw him off the porch.  Of course, the second or third time I heard that story, Shorty landed in the middle of the hog pen in the front yard, and being a small man, nearly drowned in pig poo.  What can I say?  I was maybe seven.  Pig poo was funny.  (I know I used a real name in this paragraph, but honestly, you don’t know it wasn’t really President Eisenhower.)

So let me tack on a hopelessly disconnected conclusion to give you the moral of the story.  Story-telling, like the appreciation of pig-poo humor, runs in the genes.  And I shouldn’t worry so much about those times when things go wrong for my children.   They are story-tellers too, and can probably lie their way out of any dungeon of doom.

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Filed under autobiography, humor, Paffooney

Doing the Devil’s Dance

mad

We live in world that is profoundly unkind to non-conformity, weirdness, or even basic differences.  How do you explain to a child that his school doesn’t want him there any more because his uniqueness is too much of a bother, a pain to deal with, an issue too complicated for a school administrator to get their little gray minds around?  I can’t tell you the details of what we are going through right now.   Too many privacy and legal issues get in the way of complete candor.  But Texas school systems do not handle issues of exceptionality well.   They are designed to crush originality and individual differences and grind out a workforce that will be compliant, that won’t complain when they are underpaid or mistreated, that will all be alike in many important ways.  They would also like to turn out students who vote Republican, but it is all right if they turn out to be the type of citizen who won’t or can’t vote.  Your life can be turned upside down over minor infractions.  It is a law that Texas students must be in attendance over 90% of the time.  If not, they are going to hound you, fine you, take you to court and even jail you.  Because students must all fit into the same mold.  No square pegs allowed.  They do make exceptions for health problems… but only the right kind of health problems.  Stomach cancer. okay, panic disorder, not okay…  There are laws in place to protect those of us with special handicaps… but this is the de-regulation State.  The city of West, Texas blew up in a fireball because too many regulations means lower profit margins.  Of course, they don’t hesitate to apply regulations against me and mine.  That is another matter (and the profits flow the opposite direction, offender to State).

So, what will I do now?  I will do the best I can.  I complained about it here to the best of my ability.  The child even remarked that one day he will be wiser and more experienced than others because he went through this.  There are other means of education, even if I have to do it all myself.  And I can take the frustrations and turn them into future funny fables that will ring true, because they are.

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Filed under autobiography, Paffooney

Art Self-Edited

I have been working at illustration and drawing for the majority of my life, but it took computer technology and digital photography to allow me to maximize the use of my abilities.  Let me go through a couple of case in points.

Red3redhair3

The Red-Haired Girl picture is a good example of what I can do.  I originally drew the picture to illustrate a Charlie Brown poem.   Here is the poem if you don’t remember it.  (A convenient excuse to re-post something and fill this post with words already written.)

Little Red-Haired Girl

You never told her that you loved her, Charlie Brown

That little red-haired girl, so cute, so nice

You only looked and looked from afar

You never told her that you loved her, Charlie Brown

You could’ve held her hand

You could’ve walked her home from school

You never told her that you loved her, Charlie Brown

She never got your Valentine

At least, you forgot to sign your name

You never told her that you loved her, Charlie Brown

No hope of marriage now, nor children for old age

Happily ever after has now long gone

You never told her that you loved her, Charlie Brown

Now every love poem is a sad poem

And the world is blue and down

You never told her that you loved her…

You never told her that you loved her…

You never told her that you loved her, Charlie Brown.

You may not see what I did without looking at the two pictures very closely.  The better, more brightly-lit photo is not the answer.  I originally created the Red-Haired Girl as a Charley-Brown-y creation complete with a bigger than natural head, a Charley-Brown head.10305044_602428713227020_8427155857664240183_n

I have ulterior motives for my evil cartoon manipulations.  I like this image I have created very much, in fact, one might say that I have fallen in love with it just a bit…  Pygmalion-like.  I wanted to use the image to illustrate Anita Jones, a character from my book Superchicken.  Anita is the fictional re-imagining of a girl that I had a deep and abiding crush on (possibly still existing today, though she is now a grandmother in real life.)  She is literally my little red-haired girl.  So what did I do?  Look closely.  I lovingly shrank her head.  Yes, like the headhunters of old, I used the paint program on my computer to shrink it, re-attach it, and make it more human-like.  Realistic proportions, though only a very slight change by actual percentages, make a realistic difference in how real the viewer perceives her to be.

I know you probably think I am full of goofy-gas to make such claims.  If you don’t see the difference in the first example, perhaps you will see it here.  Compare these two David Copperfield pictures carefully.  Look at Little Emily’s head.

David C David C2

You don’t have to believe me, but it does make a difference.

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Filed under art editing, humor, Paffooney

Picture Tricks

dorin 001 dorin 002 dorin 003

I have discovered things about being an artist by blogging.  I have discovered things by learning from other artists.  I have also discovered things by trial and error.  I have also discovered things by random acts of God.  So let me share some of the ill-gotten picture secrets that I have added to my vast bag of useless incunabula-juice squeezed out with my arcane-secret juicer and internet blogger good luck.

#1.  Save everything arty… as you see above, I have three different pictures of my Catch a Falling Star character Dorin Dobbs, all made from the same pen and ink line drawing.  All the color is digital paint from my computer’s own paint program.  Simple and cheap to do.  Save functions multiply the pretty.

#2.  Splice stuff together and make new stuff…  I have the cheapest possible photo-shop program, but using its entire $7 value every time I paste with it, I am able to create new art out of old.

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New art out of old;

Val at the barn Val B2 tree time banner

#3.  Weave things together to create unity…  My art is not for its own sake.  I am not Picasso or Van Gogh.  My art is very much tied to the stories I tell as a writer of Young Adult novels.  (Snow Babies is awaiting its turn with the editors of PDMI LLC Publishers.)

#4.  Promote the art and writing of others…  I have spent a ridiculous amount of internet time stalking artists like Loish and sharing their work on my blog.  Writers too.  I do my little book reports in order to connect the reading and the literary influences I have completed (or stolen from) and show where much of my own style and je nais se quois comes from.  If the artist or writer is still living and notices what I have done, they will often return the favor (hopefully, if they don’t find my work to be an offense against the gods of art).  If they can’t return the favor (because they are quite dead or thoroughly disgusted by me), I have at least associated my work with theirs in the minds of my readers,

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#5.  It’s all about digital photography…  In order to share my colored-pencil menagerie of live Paffoonies on the internet, I have to get better at photography.  I have taken far more photos of drawings in the last two years than I have drawn drawings.  That has not been a life-long way of things.  I love color, and poor photography skills turn out various shades of gray.  Sunlight?  Incandescent?  Fluorescent?   I haven’t discovered that secret yet, but it will never be uncovered if I don;t keep trying.

#5. Find connections that help pull your work together in one big, messy bundle…  Facebook, WordPress, and Deviant-Art are all better forums if you can connect them.  I did this by labeling everything Mickey with a meaningless made-up word that no one else in their right mind would use.   The word is Paffooney.

goopafoo

A picture search on Google using the words “Beyer Paffooney” gives you an almost complete gallery of my artwork and nonsense.  Googling the word itself yields a link to a plethora of my old blogs.  Do you not know what plethora means?  Try it and you will learn that very good word.

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Finding Answers with the Right Questions

Flower val

Yesterday I burbled purple paisley prose all over the page and, in trying to answer the question “Why do I Blog?”, only managed to come up with a lame sort of “I don’t know.”  but I also referenced Douglas Adams’ answer to Life, the Universe, and Everything which turned out to be 42.   You see, in the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy we learn that the Earth is nothing but an alien-designed supercomputer run by highly intelligent mice to find the actual question that goes with that ultimate answer.  Unfortunately, after the planet Earth is destroyed by Vogons to make way for an interstellar bypass, the question is put on hold.  That’s really what I did yesterday.  I put the question on hold.

But today, feeling ill and a little blue, I decided to percolate the old teapot of wisdom one more time to see if I could find an answer in the tea leaves.  I am not a well sort of individual.  As I have posted before, I have six incurable diseases and am a cancer survivor since 1983.  Every day I wake up to a new dawn is a bit of a miracle.  But the sand is running out of the hourglass.  There are things I have to put right, and blogging is a way to do that.

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In this photo Paffooney I am sharing one of my recent miracle sunrises.  6:55 looking East from the Greenbelt in the middle of Carrollton, Texas.  The dog exercises me every morning in order to keep me alive on the off chance that I will drop some bacon on the floor one morning in the near future.  She also uses me to bag up poop so she can stay out of trouble with the city.

Every morning is like that now.  I am retired.  That is a less-painful way of saying “waiting to drop dead”.  I spend a good portion of my day now alone and able to write and think and not do very much else.  So what I write and think has to be the real work that I am doing now to justify the amount of food I eat and air I breathe (and bacon I drop as the dog has just reminded me.)  I have recently finished two novels.  I have a novel waiting to be published, with a contract and everything at a small, but very real publisher.  I have two books already in the marketplace, Catch a Falling Star and Aeroquest.  You can find them and ignore them on Amazon.com and Barnes and Noble.com just like everyone else has been doing.  The books are what I am technically blogging about.  I am blogging by command of I-Universe publishing.  But that’s not really why I am doing it.  There is so much more to it than that.

Here’s the realist’s assessment of my writing… it has become a very expensive and time-consuming hobby that eats up my remaining days like a ravenous wolf.  At the rate I am going, I will not live to see the day when my writing finds wide-spread acceptance.   I have the word of professional editors and other writers that my work is very well-written, and there was a time in my life when I might’ve made a decent living at it like Terry Brooks or R. A. Salvatore.  There was a time when good books found a publisher.  Now, there is the little problem of a world teeming with books all clamoring for notice of their own.  I am generally ignored by the masses.  The local library didn’t even put the gift copy of my book, paid for with my own money, on their shelves.  They didn’t give it back, either.  My time is not yet, and my audience is probably made up of people not born yet.  Maybe they simply don’t exist.

But all those mulched-up and melancholy things I have said about my writing amount to nothing in the face of the question, “why are you still bothering to blog?”  Truthfully, in the past few months I have made myself laugh and made myself cry by writing and telling stories… by mangling metaphors and propagating purple paisley prose… by blogging.  And I really don’t care if no one ever reads my blog full of blather and allusive alliterations.  They exist.  They are real.  And I have offered them to the world.  Why do I blog?  I still don’t have any idea.

first flowers

These are the very first flowers that bloomed in our neighborhood this year that didn’t die a horrible death by freezing.  Sure, they are only common dandelions and many think of them as weeds… but they are also proof that for now the sun continues to shine and possibilities continue to bloom.

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Filed under humor, NOVEL WRITING, Paffooney

The Meaning of 42

little Toy Trio

I get goofy ideas for blog posts when I am reading other blog posts, when I am reading books, and when I am letting television suck the smart out of my brain cells.  I was first inspired by reading this blog post from In My Cluttered Attic.  He was talking about why he chooses to blog in the face of a plethora of common-sense reasons not to.  “Good idea for my own blog post!” said the insane voice that inhabits the dark space behind my mind’s own creative filing cabinet #42 in the second dungeon under my memory.  I immediately filed the idea away in that cabinet because the cabinet was close at the time and I might never find it again later.  Then I leaped to a post by The Off Key of Life in which I found a beautiful song beautifully sung that made me trip over another file cabinet that was behind the mechanical letter-sorting machine on the stairway landing to the sub-basement of the second dungeon.

Some old memories spilled out on the stone steps because I used to sing that song to my three babies when I rocked them to sleep twenty years ago, fifteen years ago, and thirteen years ago.  That song, and “When You Wish Upon a Star” from Disney’s Pinocchio.  Both of those songs are about one day finding the key to happiness… or possibly the key to understanding… but definitely about the search for the key.  I always believed that those songs would give my children sweet dreams… and I prayed that the songs would never become the source of nightmares.

And then I was watching Hulu, an episode of Arrow in which Oliver Queen must decide on the reason why he was doing the whole superhero-vigilante thing and risking his life constantly.  Unfortunately I didn’t find the file box that has superheroes in it that I was looking for in hallway leading to Area 51 in the upper dungeon.  But I knew the topic was going to be “Why I Blog”.  That settled, I began to write and paste in all sorts of random stuff.

“What is the meaning of 42?” you ask?  How clever of you to ask that!  In Douglas Adams’ seminal series of Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy books

the_hitchhikers_guide_to_the_galaxy 42 is revealed to be the answer to the ultimate question of Life, the Universe, and Everything.  Practically everything that he adds to that epic trilogy of five-or-so books is basically random.  And yet, it is not.  He is telling us about the apparent randomness of Life, the Universe, and Everything while carefully explaining how all this random madness that is Everything actually fits together in a very random-mad way.  There is a certain asymmetrical symmetry about it all that has a certain contradictory sort of beauty, if you get what I mean.  (A certain ugly beauty if you don’t get what I mean.)

So why do I blog?  Good question.  I don’t really have an answer to it.  I blog because my first publisher told me I had to do it to promote my book, Catch a Falling Star.  My book has netted me $28 so far, as long as I am not fool enough to start subtracting all the money I have spent trying to advertise and promote my book.  I’m not fool enough.  I stay out of that corridor in the maze of my complicated little mind.  I blog because I can share all the private drawings and poems and insane nonsense that fills the filing cabinets in my mind without paying a hefty psychiatrist’s fee.  Your underwear drawer needs to be aired out once in a while even if you do remember to wash your underwear.  And it is liberating to walk around figuratively naked in front of an audience that potentially includes little old church ladies, God, and everybody.  I blog because writing is something that I do, have always done, and will continue to do until they put my smelly corpse in a pine box and bury it under the garbage pile out back.  All that scribbling has to count for something sometime.  And maybe that sometime is now.  If you are one of those poor souls suffering from Serial-Mickey’s-Blog-Reading Disorder (a condition the CDC has taken to labeling SMBRD… not to be confused with small-bird flu), and you actually read the posts and look at all the random junk piled into those mad paragraphs, you may just accidentally stumble across that key we have all been searching for for eons… and unlike the majority of the world, you will be giggling insanely for a reason!

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Filed under humor, Paffooney, writing