Category Archives: Paffooney

Spacey Stories

Buster 3

I am usually considered a Sci-fi and Fantasy author when anybody tries to categorize me.  I learned to write during the 70’s when Tolkien and Michael Moorcock and Frank Herbert were growing bigger, and Robert Heinlein, Ray Bradbury, and Isaac Asimov were gods.  Of course, I also have the YA-thing hanging around my neck like a bell.  I learned to tell stories being a dungeon master for middle-school and high-school boys back in the eighties.  And because it was Texas with a deeply-held and violently-enforced religious fear of anything with demons in it, I was forced to change my role-playing games from sword and sorcery to science-fiction.  I played endless Saturday-afternoon Traveller (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Traveller_%28role-playing_game%29) games that could span parsecs and light-years in a single afternoon.  And I was one of those game-masters who used humor to build a campaign and keep the players engaged and interested.  We had epic space battles and conquered large swaths of the Orion Spur of the Milky Way Galaxy.  When I began turning my Traveller games into fiction, I used the personalities of the boys who played the game with me for characters in the stories.  I often used the same plots (applying considerable polish to portions of plot where… well, you know… teenage boys, not remarkably G-rated.)  I created things that made me and some of the players laugh, and even feel sad… with deep, cathartic effects, as if we had experienced those things in real life.  (The deaths of favorite characters and tragic failures of galaxy-saving plans come quickly to mind.)

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I enjoy practically everything Sci-Fi, from Flash Gordon, to Buck Rodgers,  to Star Trek and Star Wars…  I loved Mechwarrior books and comic-book Sci-Fi like Adam Strange, Hawkworld, and Guardians of the Galaxy (the old ones that came before Groot and Rocket Raccoon).  I let it warp and weave my imagination and the imaginary worlds that blossomed from it.
A
nd the ideas continued to morph and change and become stories that I really had to tell.

Phoenix1My first published novel, Aeroquest is a compilation of old Traveller adventures.  I published it well before it was ready for market and used a cheap-o publisher that wasn’t worth the free price-tag,  They gave me no editorial help and apparently didn’t even read the novel.  I will not defame them by name here, but if they sound to you like Publish America… well, there might be a reason.

I love stories about time travel and sci-fi gadgets…  trans-mats and starships and meson cannons and sentient plants… oh, my!

And now that I have revealed that I have such a massive nerd-head that I really ought to own Comicon by now, I hope you will not suddenly turn me off and read my blog no more.  I can’t help it.  I was born that way… and any child doomed to be born in the 50’s and a child in the space-race 60’s was bound to have George-Lucas levels of Sci-Fi nerdism.

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Filed under humor, Paffooney, science fiction

Writer’s Block

20150417_083955I have always maintained that I do not experience writer’s block.  I mean, the words always flow.  Sure, it may be garbage and word-sludge, but I can always get something down.  Yet, the past three days have been a struggle.

You see, I have been working on a sci-fi comedy novel called Stardusters and Space Lizards.  On Monday one of the main characters, a green-skinned alien girl named Brekka was swallowed by a man-eating plant.  In another scene the explorers Farbick and Starbright, both green-skinned Tellerons like Brekka, were surrounded by hungry lizard children from the planet Galtorr Prime.  And those lizard children were armed with weapons of war.  Mortal danger all around for characters I have grown fond of… and this story is supposed to be humor… not grisly-death-sort-of horror sci-fi.  So, my simple and somewhat stupid brain had to come up with two different salvation solutions at once.  I think I may have broken something in the area of the creative mental spigot.

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It is essential for me to accomplish writing in a timely fashion.  I waited through the duration of my entire teaching career to become a published author.  Thirty one years’ worth of stories collected, stories plotted out, and stories percolated in my brain with nothing but a future hope of getting written down to endure upon.  I started writing books when I lost my teaching job with the Wicked Witch of Creek Valley.  I began trying to get published, and I took up regular composition on a daily basis for the last seven years of my teaching career as an ESL teacher in a large Garland High School.  But my teaching time was limited by my six incurable diseases.  (Don’t ask me what they are, since my writing time is precious and I have already wasted too much thinking time on disease and disaster elsewhere in this goofy blog… You can look it up.)  Spring of 2014 saw me retiring as a public school teacher.  I have a pension… enough to keep myself and my children alive, but the couple dozen novel-length stories in my head still have to be told, if not for money, then to keep my goofy old head from swelling up with them and exploding.  So I seriously got down to the business of writing.  Catch a Falling Star, a novel about the alien Tellerons invading my home town in Iowa was published in 2012.  I entered a writing contest that same year with the manuscript of Snow Babies, which made it to the final round before finishing out of the prizes.  I found a publisher willing to publish it without making me pay for the publication and signed a contract for the novel.  I entered Magical Miss Morgan in the same Young Adult novel contest this month.  I also have Superchicken and The Bicycle-Wheel Genius finished as manuscripts and I am looking to get them published as well.  I am making progress.  But here’s the big butt… er, I mean the big but… I don’t know how much longer God will give me to work on these silly symphonies of wonderful words in wacky packages.  I need to finish and market as much as I can in as short a time as I can.

20150305_173534That is what makes writer’s block so unthinkable.  I do not have the time to be out of ideas.

But I am not out of ideas.   Brekka was spit out because her species of alien left a bad taste in the mouth of the man-eating plant.  And Farbick figured out how to make synthetic meat with a material synthesizer, feeding all the lizard children until they were too full to eat his girlfriend Starbright.  I just had to take the time to figure out the solutions.  And one can’t actually say I have writer’s block because I wrote longer than usual posts in this blog on each of those empty-headed days I was searching through mental filing cabinets.  So, I guess I don’t have writer’s block.  Well… never mind.

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For those of you wondering what’s with all the goofy flower-photos… here’s a picture of Brekka and Menolly dancing… so you don’t ask that.

My Art

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Filed under humor, NOVEL WRITING, Paffooney

Baseball Season

Every Spring is a new beginning, a new hope, a new chance to win the pennant.

DSCN5273When the baseball season starts fresh each year, it renews me, makes feel like I have another chance to make things happen and conquer the world again.  It makes me feel alive again… even now when I am old and retired and in constant pain.

People say to me, “Baseball is boring and slow and not as great a game as…” and then they try to tell me stuff about football and soccer and NBA basketball.  I’m not buying it, even when it is my eldest son selling it.

Baseball became my sport when I was a child in the 1960’s.  Great Grandpa Raymond was a frail and ancient man then, too elderly to share much of anything with me as I was young and full of energy.  But on Sunday afternoons in Spring and Summer, we listened to the Minnesota Twins play baseball on the radio.  I heard Harmon Killebrew hit homers and Tony Oliva make game-winning hits.  I learned that the game was about numbers and strategy… a team game, yet filled with moments of man versus man, star of one team facing off against the star of another, skill versus skill, willpower versus willpower.  I learned that baseball was a fundamental metaphor for how we live our lives.

I remember when Bob Gibson was the greatest pitcher in baseball, and he played an entire career with my favorite team, the St. Louis Cardinals.  I remember Lou Brock setting the record for stealing bases in a single season, a monumental accomplishment.  I actually saw Lou Brock steal a base in a game against the Houston Astros, though not in the record-setting year.  I was there in person.  I listened to Bob Gibson’s no hitter of the Pittsburgh Pirates on the radio, listening in a campground in St. Louis while the Cardinals actually played in Pittsburgh.  I didn’t get to see Stan Musial play ball.  He retired before I first became aware of the game.  But he was on TV quite a lot on game day, and I hung on every word.

970012_598081996889896_1749856650_n 10407396_841407729243846_8153033581544611964_n 252384_10151150805491840_424979047_nBaseball has gotten me through some very rough times in my life.  I used to play ball, baseball and softball.  I was a center fielder for our 4-H team and made some game-saving catches in the field, hit a home run once, and once saved a game for our side when I threw out a runner at home plate from center field.  And I have religiously followed the Cardinals year after year.  In 2011, when health problems and family problems and depression threatened to destroy me… the Cardinals won the World Series in seven hard-fought games.  When you reach a moment of crisis, with the game on the line, you can reach deep inside for that old baseball player magic… tell yourself, “I will not lose this day!” and find the power within you to make that throw, get that hit, catch that long fly ball…

Baseball is a connection to family and friends… teammates… everyone who has ever shared the love of the game.  If you don’t win it all this time… there’s always next Spring.  God, I love baseball.

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Cartoonist Super Powers

I call myself a cartoonist because I draw stuff and use it for crap that makes a point about stuff or makes people laugh at other stuff… and maybe qualifies as a super power.cartooner me

I really am not always sure about the super power stuff… but my dog and I got into an argument yesterday about doggy duties.  I was insisting that a dog should earn her keep.  Work for her food and the obedience of all the humans in the house when it comes to following her commands about taking her for walks, picking up her poop in the park, and allowing her to chew up my car keys without punishing her because they smell like me, and make her think about me, and so she has to chew the electronic automatic un-locker-thingy until it is in plastic shards because… well, she loves me so much.  I wasn’t asking for much.  I just ask that she help the security in the household by eating any burglars that come in to steal our precious stuff (precious in the sense of sentimental value only… unless thieves have developed a market for VHS tapes and television sets fifteen years out-of-date.)  So she was sulking.

When the burglar came in… burglars always come in when they have something going for them like the dog sulking… the dog didn’t eat him.  So he came upstairs to the room where I was working on cartoons.

“Gee, you have a lot a worthless crap,” the burglar said.

Startled by the fact that the burglar thought all my worthless crap was nothing more than worthless crap, I turned to my drawing table and quickly drew a gun.

“Okay, you have the drop on me,” said the burglar, using an old TV cliche.  When he raised his hands over his head, I could clearly see that he had boobs.  He was a she!

“You are a woman!” I said, displaying my quick and wily wit… rather slowly.

“Don’t shoot!”

“Oh, I wouldn’t shoot a woman.  It ain’t the honorable thing to do.  Now take off all your clothes.  We will make a little whoopee and then I will let you go.”

“But I’m not a woman!  I am a guy burglar who likes to wear dresses and fake boobs.  Besides, this is open-carry Texas where every house has an NRA member with semi-automatic weapons and a law that allows you to shoot anyone of any age if they step on your property… but they generally don’t shoot women.”

I didn’t believe her… so I took the eraser end of my pencil and erased her clothes.  She was, in fact, a man!

“I don’t believe this,” I said.  “Do you get away with this trick often?”

“I never seem to get away with it,” he said sadly.  “In fact, there was a house full of Bubbas that I tried to rob unsuccessfully two months ago… and now the pregnancy test kit says I’m pregnant.”

I gave him all the money I had (about $0.37), some spare clothes I had meant to give to Goodwill, and sent him on his way.

The dog bit him on the way out.

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Filed under humor, Paffooney, pen and ink

Fragile People (Revisited)

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As a school teacher, if you do the job for long enough, you become aware of a great multitude of human problems that can break a child, crumble their emerging personality, and dump them into the most dangerous depths of the human experience.  I have taught bipolar children, ADHD children, transgender children, autistic children, and children with anger-management issues.  I can remember times in my own life when I was the boy made of glass.  I was cracked and crumbled when I was ten years old because a fifteen-year-old neighbor boy sexually abused me.  I was ground into shards again when the Wicked Witch of Creek Valley Middle School refused to see any redeeming qualities in my teaching ability, and zeroed me out on an evaluation so badly that it took two long years to find another opportunity to do the one thing in life I’ve been trained for and believe that I am good at.  The depression from each of those crackings was very nearly fatal.

The Fallen Ace

Don’t despair for me, though.  I have always only been made of glass for brief periods in my life.  The rest of the time I am mostly made of spoof and rubber.  Stuff mostly bounces off me, and I learned from my grandfather (the one I always believed was secretly God in human form) how to laugh at everything, especially my troubles.  Those of us who know the loving God Jehovah (no matter what name we are willing to call Him by) are harder to break than most people.  That belief, especially that part that galvanizes and changes the very stuff we are made of, helps life’s barbs and darts and plain ol’ rocks to bounce off like we are Superman’s sillier clone with very little harm actually done.

Not all people are made like that, however.  I taught for two years without an actual teaching job (in spite of the Wicked Witch of Creek Valley), doing substitute work in Reading, Science, Special Ed, and even as a test administrator for the Texas state academic exams, at the time they were the TAKS Tests (the Texas Assessment of Knowledge and Skills, though the name is perfect because they are really more like sitting on TACKS while paying your income TAX).  In fact, I was a substitute Science teacher as I originally wrote these very words (on paper, you know, because subs are not generally smart enough to be trusted with computers).  As a substitute I encountered more fragile kids in one year than I ever knew existed when I was a regular classroom teacher.  There are more breakable people in schools than you can count on Robert Malthus’ abacus.

At the TAKS-celebration teacher-student basketball game, I was called on to sit in a quiet room with two unique specials who couldn’t stand to be around crowds or noise (a constant condition in schools that one can only rarely get away from).  The girl, who throws fits if she thinks you are looking at her too much, sat quietly with the computer, looking up Pokemon episodes and repeating dialogue aloud from each in funny voices meant only to entertain herself.  The boy, who goes into the fetal curl and weeps, sat at a table with a book on origami, happily folding up an army of alien space cruisers to stuff into his notebooks and leave a trail of space ships wherever he was soon to go.  Neither one of them will ever damage anyone but themselves if they get broken by life, yet each is so fragile that mere noise can scatter their flower petals.  Hothouse violets with no tolerance for much of anything in the great wide world.  I suppose I should feel honored that the school felt confident enough in my abilities at classroom management that I could handle these two delicate blossoms at the same time while everyone else was off having fun of a different kind.

I’ve seen violent and angry broken people too.   I once referred a boy to the school counselor because he was fantasizing about blowing people’s heads off with a shotgun in the pages of his class journal assignment.  The counselor back then, in a pre-9-11 world, said there was really nothing that could be done about something that was in a boy’s private journal.  Three years later that boy went to jail for beating his girlfriend’s youngest daughter almost to death.  The child was only two years old.  It put a few cracks in my armor to learn about that, knowing what I thought I knew about that boy.  Sometimes we are not Superman and the bullets don’t bounce off.

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One of the most dangerous sorts of glass people are the girls made of glass (at least in the opinion of one male teacher).  Three times girls fell in love with me during the course of the school year.  All three reached a point in their fantasy lives where they believed they required love and sex back from me.   I wondered to myself if they had severe vision problems or were just plain crazy, but all three were lovely girls, and smart, a joy to teach… at least until that love bug bit ’em.  The first two ended up hating me and becoming discipline problems for the remainder of the year.  The third, well… she was just too perfect.  She listened to the “you are more like a daughter to me, and I’m marrying someone else” speech and only put her sweet head against my shoulder and said to me with tears in her big, brown eyes, “You are the teacher I am going to miss the most when I’m in High School.”  You know, twenty-one years later, I still tear up thinking about that one.  Those three girls were all breakable people too, and I had the hammer in my hand on those three occasions.  They are not the type to hurt others either, but I mourn for them, because they all three grew up into beautiful women and are so much smarter now than they were then that they would never again fall in love with a goofy gink like me.

I took this old journal piece out of cold storage and re-wrote a bit and added a bit and revisited old sorrows and jokes because I am still dealing with breakable people despite being retired from teaching.  This morning I had to quell another panic attack in a child who had no reason to have one.  Waking up to eat sausages cooked by goofy old dad should not cause someone to curl up in a ball and be afraid to get out of bed… to the point of tears.  (Or maybe there is more wrong with my cooking than I realize.)  The health insurance still doesn’t want to pay for psychiatric services, and I am a loss for how to cure things that could so easily turn into paranoia and schizophrenia.  I am dancing with bare feet on a thistle patch at present and hope to come out of it all with enough money left to live on and enough life left to be worth living.

So, what is the main idea out of all this mooning, fluff, and drivel?  Well, I guess that people are all made out glass sometimes, all delicate and easy to destroy.  And you know what?  There are too many angry bulls in this China shop we call our lives.  Too much gets cracked, wrecked, or broken.  If only people could walk through our lives with a bit lighter step… and maybe at least try to be careful!

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Filed under humor, Paffooney, teaching

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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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.

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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