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When you make the mistake of admitting to others that you are a writer, they immediately assume you know things that are kept secret from “normal” people. For instance, they will simply assume that you can tell them where you get your ideas for writing. Well, I am fairly sure that I got the idea for this post from watching a YouTube video in which the Master, Neil Gaiman, says that every author has a joke answer for that one with enough sarcastic wit in it to punish the asker with public humiliation.

I asked the dog if she knew any jokes like that which I could use to prepare for someone asking me that question in public. She said, “You could tell them that your family dog tells you what to write every day.”

“No,” I said, “people would never believe it.”

“Well, it is supposed to be a joke. But you are right. No one would ever think you were actually smart enough to write down what a dog tells you.”

“Yes, it’s a good thing for me that you know how to speak in English. I could never translate and transcribe Barkinese.”

So, I began thinking of where some of my best ideas came from.

Dreams

Some of my stories come directly from dreams that I had. The nightmare about being chased down a street in Rowan at midnight by a large black dog with red eyes was an actual dream I had in the 1970s. So was the nightmare of the werewolf climbing out of the TV during a late-night viewing of Lon Chaney in The Wolfman.

Those two dreams together were the start of the story that became my recently published novel, The Baby Werewolf. Both dreams visit the protagonist in the story I wrote almost as if they were his dreams and not actually mine.

Events

Snow Babies, the best novel I have ever written, was based on two different blizzards I experienced, first as a child in the 1960’s, and then again as a high school kid in the 1970s. Each blizzard involved being snowed in for a week at someone else’s house. As a child, I was stuck at Grandpa’s farm place until the snow plows could finally do their work and open the gravel roads. As a teen, I was stuck in Great Grandma’s retirement apartment near the high school in Belmond.

That novel also is based on the next source of ideas;

Characters

I can’t think of any story I have written that isn’t based on real people I have known in one way or another. Valerie in the novel above is based on three different girls I have known or taught. One of those three is my own daughter. The four orphans on the bus in that story are all boys from my junior high classes in the 1980s.

Lucky Catbird Sandman, the hobo who wears the quilted coat of many colors, is based on the poet Walt Whitman, whom I knew well in a past life, and my own shiftless, storyteller self. Some characters are just so key to a story idea that they themselves are the reason for a book to exist.

In conclusion, the dog doesn’t really know what she’s talking about. None of these things are really where I get my ideas. But I am out of time. I will have to write about the bottle imp another day. No, really. A magical imp trapped in a bottle. You can make one of those give you ideas for novels with only a slight risk to your life and soul.

I am still having a hard time writing words daily. I used to pump out a good 1,000+ words daily. Now, there are some days with a re-posted old post and only a couple of lines of something new for an entire day. Glaucoma, arthritis, post-Covid depression, and glitchy laptops keep me from being as productive as once I was.

This post is less than I wanted to write, but today I finished another writing project for a book of short stories about nudists that I am writing for another group project organized by a nudist writer in France. I don’t know if the surge of words in the last couple of days will cure the problem, but as the title says, I am still swimming in the sea of sentences.

“I will publish a book,” he said quietly in a soft voice that nobody could hear.

Since I am not quite ready to die, I resolve to stay alive for another year.

I will try to be naked more.

I will save wear and tear on clothing.

I will be more immersed in the environment.

With climate change, I probably won’t freeze to death. But I do live in Texas where suffering in a way that is contrary to expectations is what the government requires of everybody but the richest folks.

I will draw more naked people because I am a nudist and aspire to make an art book about drawing nudes.

I will talk to dogs more. They have lots of things to say. And they have a unique point of view. And not many old coots like me can actually interpret what dogs say in Barkese. There is an evil schnauzer on our block that keeps barking at other dogs about how he buys stocks in dog food companies and plans to use his profits to make cats illegal in Texas. I feel compelled to expose the plot.

I will continue to be obsessed with writing creative and imaginative stories for children, but never avoiding being frank and honest about adult topics because, even if the child reading the book I have written is under the age of twenty-one, they need to know things adults know in this world because if they don’t, what they don’t know can hurt them. And it is confusing enough when I am being frank and they thought I was being Mickey. That confuses children older than 21 especially.

And so, I will set out on the adventure that is 2023. And I will try to keep all my resolutions… and probably not be able to keep any of them… but I will try really hard… especially the talking to dogs thing.

This has been a year of two steps forward and three steps back.

My quality of life is headed down the backside of the mountain. My eyes are afflicted with glaucoma and color blindness, things that permanently take away from my ability to see. I stand to lose the ability to draw and paint, to drive a car, to cook my own food, and numerous other things I have taken for granted for a lifetime.

My body is eroding in many other ways too. I have now had osteoarthritis for 48 years since I was diagnosed with it at the age of 18. I can still walk (with a cane) because I have exercised my joints repeatedly and daily in order to keep my joints flexible and workable, in spite of the pain that has cut into my quality of sleep more this year than any previous year. I have had diabetes since 2020 and still am not on insulin because of carefully monitoring my diet and the exercise that keeps my arthritis at bay.

The only book I managed to publish was The Necromancer’s Apprentice back in February of 2022. It has typos in the final text that I have not yet been able to correct. Most of those occurred during the final proofreading and editing because not only are my arthritic fingers routinely landing wrong, my laptop likes to glitch due to accidentally repurposed keys that teleport letters to pages not on my screen for some obscure reason involving the ctrl and Windows keys being accidentally brushed by arthritic fingers that apparently have more static electricity on them than I would believe is possible. I have had to slowly learn how to undo these things with a brain that is increasingly slowed and forgetful.

My storytelling has slowed to a crawl. I don’t get as many words written in a week. Of course, I have too many projects going at the same time. I have three novels in progress. He Rose on a Golden Wing is a long one that will probably end up being the longest one I have ever written. The Education of Poppensparkle was about three chapters from being a finished novella when I stopped working on it temporarily back in August. I have the AeroQuest novel number 4 in the final proofreading stage but haven’t finished the proofreading because of difficulties of seeing the text and format settings properly. And I started a new obsession project, The Haunted Toy Store.

My blog is headed downhill now too for the first time since it was begun in 2013. The high point last year was 31,106 views and 17,676 visitors. This year, with two days left, I have only 24,346 views and 12,499 visitors. This probably happened because I posted too many nudes in the blog and wrote a novel about nudists and alienated all my fundamentalist Christian readers who see such things as inappropriate rather than innocent or artistic. And the increased interactions with online nudists has probably put me in the disapproving spotlight of the algorithm

Nudists, however, turn out to be good and loyal readers. I have sold more books and made more money from books than any previous year. And not just my nudist stories. My most popopular books are non-nudist stories. Snow Babies, about surviving a blizzard is at the top of the list. My teacher story, Magical Miss Morgan, and my computer-science-fiction book The Wizard in his Keep, are also vying for most read and most positively reviewed.

.And so, I suppose, that it has been a good year after all, though my condition and prospects for the future are possibly at a point of percipitous decline until the end of the road.

Bob Crachit and Tiny Tim were a key part of Charles Dickens’ masterwork that really helped create Christmas as we know it in this 21st Century time of troubles. I drew this with colored pencils back in the early 80s. It is still one of the artworks I am most proud to have created. Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

You are probably already thinking, “What in the heck does Mickey mean when he says unvarnished truth?” And then also thinking, “For that matter, what the heck is Varnished Truth?” Which is a really good question.

Varnished truth could be like those decoupage projects from the early 70s that my two sisters did for 4-H projects to show at the county fair where you take a quote from somebody like Cardinal Richelieu or Senator Joseph McCarthy or Donald Trump or even Adolph Hitler and decorate it up fancy, glue it to a wooden plaque, and then varnish the bejeebers out of it. Of course, none of those would be true no matter how much varnish was sloshed over it… those names were chosen entirely for their comedic value.

Or you could decoupage the fake work of art I started this post with. I merely used a coloring-book app to fill in the colors by number, so it is not actually art by me. And layering varnish and polish over it would merely make the faux something seem more like real art. That’s Varnished Truth.

But the unvarnished truth often seems negative. It bursts bubbles. Like this unvarnished truth.

My new granddaughter is only pretend. She’s made of plastic. I have no actual grandchildren.

In point of fact, my whole life of late is pretend. I have been trying to negotiate with a small publishing company for two months to try to get my best books promoted at a book fair in New Orleans even though I couldn’t possibly be there in person due to health and wealth concerns. And, like all schemes from publishers nowadays, it is a little bit scammy with the amount of money they want me to pay for including my books and saying nice things about them to people who probably won’t want to buy them anyway. I am probably only a pretend author. And I spend my time mostly in my sick bed, talking to plastic dolls as if they were real children, even during a part of my Christmas holiday.

There are a number of things I want to say as unvarnished truths, but they are as hard to hear as they are to say.

There are rules in this world I live in that I refuse to follow;

1. Poor people, people of color, people of non-Christian religions, and anybody who is not both white and rich don’t count in this country. They exist only to serve and work for low wages to make the owners and investors wealthy. If they are unhappy with wages that don’t provide a minimal living, lack of healthcare, lack of decent education, or anything else they probably have a god-given right to, then it is their own fault. I learned this truth from George Carlin. And unfortunately, it is not only unvarnished… but true.
2. Fear and hatred are what are promoted by conservative media. They make their money that way. Health and happiness are not dollar magnets. So, if you are even a little bit happy, but not rich, you are probably what The Donald means by calling you “a loser.”
3. Corporations control everything in this country and most of the world. I control nothing. And if the corporations choose making high short-term profits over keeping the planet alive by battling climate change, I can’t do anything about it… except die when the time comes.
4. People who don’t believe in wearing clothes all the time are bad people, and Reverand Joel Osteen and Brother Jerry Falwell Junior won’t approve.

None of those are rules to live by. Only to suffer and die by.

And I choose to refuse.

I learned as a teacher of many years in public schools that there is something valuable and loveable in every child, no matter what color, religion, reading level, personality quirk, or general ickiness factor they happen to possess. And every adult was once a child just like that too. Sure, some of them grow up to be MAGA Republicans, but even Donald Trump deserves a second chance… after serving at least the two life sentences he so richly deserves. Elon Musk, Bill Gates, and Warren Buffet too… and I just need a little more time to think about Jeff Bezos. Irresistible evil probably does fly to space in a rocket shaped like a penis.

I can be a nudist if I want to. I can talk to my granddaughter who is made of plastic, and she doesn’t argue with me when I talk to her like the rest of the people do. And if badness is meant to overwhelm everything in the end, well, the point is to live your best life while you are alive. I know I will… even if it is only a form of pretending.