As The Snow Blows

I submit today’s post as part of my ongoing campaign to acknowledge that not all people are bad, Modern Philosophers.

It snowed again, as it tends to do in January in Maine. I have today off, so I didn’t allow the white stuff to increase my stress levels. I do not have to drive in it, and I have all day to clear it from the driveway.

With this in mind, I enjoyed my breakfast and then bundled up to go out and deal with the white menace. I’m never good at estimating snow totals. They were calling for four to five inches, and I’d have to guess the storm delivered on that promise. The mountain at the end of the driveway, left from the city snowplow, was enormous. I didn’t care. Shoveling would be my cardio activity for the day.

About ten minutes in, my neighbor Mark revved up his snowblower. I had already cleared the front path and the side yard and had made a small dent in the driveway. Mark rolled out his big orange destroyer of snow and got to work. For the next several minutes, we worked in unison. He cleared wide swaths of snow, while I shoveled away much smaller amounts. The point is, we worked together and got the job done.

Thankfully, Mark took the heavy stuff at the end of the driveway and allowed me to handle the intimidating, but much more manageable accumulation on the blacktop. I’d say he saved me a good forty-five minutes of sweating and swearing. I made sure to thank him before he moved on to clear the sidewalk in front of his house.

Mark and his wife plan to sell their house and move down south this summer. This will allow them to be closer to their daughter and grandchildren. I certainly am going to miss them as they have been wonderful neighbors for the past twenty years.

I wonder if Mark plans to fly up after every snowstorm and help clear my driveway…

Very grateful for my neighbors. Their pending move has actually given me the idea for my next novel. Don’t worry, it’s a comedy, not another murder mystery! And they have helped me to realize that not all people are bad, annoying, and need to be avoided.

Forever Tinkering

I’ve spent the weekend making some changes to the Bruno manuscript, Modern Philosophers. My beta readers have given me exciting feedback and I wanted to incorporate their suggestions into the story.

Like I said in an earlier post, I haven’t always been good with criticism. However, now that I look at it as constructive feedback, rather than as a criticism of my writing, I am much more open-minded about listening to it.

There was one suggestion I didn’t necessarily agree with, but I came up with a way to address it in an interesting manner, so I put it in the story. The other ideas have made perfect sense, and I was excited to come up with creative ways to make the manuscript better.

I’m sure I’m not done. I am still waiting to hear back from two readers. I know I will be reading through the manuscript again to look for typos, and that is bound to spark an idea or two that I will want to add.

Additionally, my mind is swimming with ideas for a second book in the series. I had started to write a second book, but I realize now the plot won’t work due to the rewrites I’ve done on the first story. It’s exciting, though, to have so many plans for these characters. The more I write them, the more alive they become in my mind. They have stories they want to tell, and I’m thrilled with the prospect of putting them down on paper.

I’m definitely nervous about querying again. All the rejection is rough on my self-confidence. I know this version of the manuscript is better than anything I’ve ever written. I just have to cross my fingers, bite the bullet, and hope I can find at least one agent and publisher who agrees with me.

Writing is not an easy business, but I’m never going to quit!

Please May I Have Some Oil?

If you’ve been paying close attention while reading this blog, Modern Philosophers, you might have picked up on the fact that Maine can get chilly during the winter. As a result, I pay outrageous amounts of money to heat The House on the Hill.

It is supposed to be very cold next week, so I’ve been keeping an eye on the gauge on my oil tank. I’m on an automatic delivery schedule, but I never trust that Big Oil knows exactly how much is left in my supply. And if they do know, how are they monitoring it?

I was down to a quarter tank on Tuesday, which is my normal delivery day. When I got home from work, I checked for the ticket the driver is supposed to leave after filling the tank. There wasn’t one, but that didn’t necessarily mean there was no delivery. The driver has been known to forget to leave the ticket.

So, I went to the basement to check the gauge. It had dipped below a quarter tank. I called the oil company, and the rep assured me a ticket had been pulled for my address, and a driver would be by at some point. That made me happy.

Something else eagle-eyed readers might have noted is that I can be neurotic. I tend to obsess over a problem until it is resolved. As a result, I constantly got up from writing to look out the window for signs of the oil truck. By the time I went to bed, the tank had not been filled.

I checked in the morning and the gauge was still under a quarter. I called the oil company. The rep promised me a ticket would be sent to a driver that day. I asked for clarification. What happened to the ticket that the driver already had yesterday?

She left me on hold for a bit and returned all apologetic. There was no record of a ticket ever being put in for a delivery yesterday. She had spoken to her supervisor and assured me I would get my oil today. I was fine with this. It wasn’t like the tank was empty.

When I got home from work, I could see that path had been made in the snow on my front lawn. Someone had walked across it, possibly dragging a long hose, and made his way to the backyard. Even though there was no delivery ticket, I took this as an excellent sign that my tank was now full.

Guess what? I went to the basement and checked the gauge. It was still under a quarter. I charged up the stairs and called the oil company. As I was waiting on hold, the delivery truck pulled up in front of the house. I went out to greet the driver.

He sheepishly explained that he’d come earlier, dragged the heavy hose up the hill, only to discover he had eight gallons of oil left in his truck. To make matters worse, he said he went back down the hill, turned his truck around so that it was now facing downhill in hopes that hidden oil would now trickle down to the front for delivery. He trudged back up the hill and learned his creative plan had not worked.

So, he had to go fill up his truck and return for a third trip up my hill. This time, I got my oil tank filled. Like they always say, Modern Philosophers, third time’s the charm.

This is my life. I just had to share…

 

The Benefits of Peopling

I am able to tolerate snow in small doses, Modern Philosophers. I feel the same way about people.

I’ve never been a people person, but once in a while I make an attempt to improve my peopling skills. That normally doesn’t end well, but I often take away an experience that I can later share in my writing. My characters are always so believable in their social awkwardness because I write what I know.

It snowed yesterday, as it often does in Maine in January. It was only a couple of inches, and I didn’t have to drive in it, so it didn’t cause my stress levels to skyrocket. Like I said, I don’t mind snow in manageable portions. I took my time this morning and went out to shovel when I was ready.

I was about halfway done with the driveway when my neighbor came around with his snowblower and cleared the heavy snow the city plow piles at the foot of the driveway. We had a lovely chat about the weather and then went our separate ways.

This was one of those times when I appreciate people. Whenever my neighbor helps with the snow clearing, I am thankful for all he does for me. As much as I’d rather lead a reclusive life, I understand that I do need to interact with others from time to time. Such acts of kindness from my neighbor remind me that I cannot give up on people altogether.

As you know, I am preparing to query the rewrite of the Bruno novel. A few friends are reading the manuscript for me. Another fine example of why people are good. Yesterday, being nice to people and maintaining interactions with them paid off again.

I have a very good friend who is a librarian. She knows more about books than anyone I’ve ever met. I asked her to help me with my query package. I’m not good at selling myself. I don’t know enough about books to speak like an expert. As a result, the information I send with my queries does not impress agents. I’d like to change that.

There are two key areas on the query form that always stymie me:  listing books that are similar to mine (known as comps in the querying world) and explaining the target audience for my books.

I do my best, but I know my answers suck. So, I’ve recruited (begged and pleaded with) my favorite librarian to assist me with these glaring weaknesses in my query package. Yesterday, she came through big time with a list of comps. I’d only read one book on her list, so it further highlighted how little I know about the publishing world.

Today, I’ve asked her to help me with my target audience problem.

I am very lucky to have friends who can help me. I’d try to make more friends since these two have proven to be so awesome, but I don’t think I can do it. People and I don’t mix. Maybe we could mix if I made more of an effort, but past results have not been very promising…

The Red Pen Is Mightier Than The Sword

I’ve been working on the notes I’ve received from some of my beta readers, Modern Philosophers. There was a time when having a mistake pointed out to me would have been embarrassing, but I’ve matured to a point where I understand that this feedback is necessary to make my writing better.

And when I say I’ve matured, that is not a subtle reminder that my birthday is quickly approaching. It is an honest bit of self-reflection. Back in the day (can you sound any more ancient, Austin???), I would get angry at any criticism of my writing. I would take it as a personal offense and be in a bad mood for hours, if not days. Of course, this was when I was just starting out and thought I knew all there was to know about the craft.

Boy, was I wrong! I’m still learning how to be a writer, even at my advanced age.

I still cannot believe that I queried agents with my early screenplays. They were so horribly written. I was just out of college and thought my fancy degree meant I was an experienced screenwriter. What a clueless idiot!

Thankfully, my writing has evolved over the countless decades that have passed since I graduated from college. More importantly, I’ve learned to not only accept criticism, but to also seek out input before I submit my work. In my youth, I never let anyone read my stuff before I sent it to agents. I told myself it was because I didn’t want to jinx the project. What I realize now is that I was a moron who should have been workshopping his stories with anyone willing to read them.

I hate that 99% of the query rejections I receive are form letters. I wish agents could give real feedback. I know that’s not possible given how much time it would take, but it sure would be helpful. I’d rather not send the same pages out to countless agents if they are not well-written. Even though my beta readers are giving me excellent input, they aren’t agents. They don’t know what agents are truly seeking. I can’t express how much it would help my cause if just a handful of agents gave me honest feedback. I don’t care if it’s crushing and negative because I would take it and use it to improve my manuscript.

All this talk about wanting feedback on my writing makes me really appreciate my teachers. They sat there with their red pens and corrected essays from a class of thirty-five students. They never just slapped a letter grade on a paper and handed it back. There was always input. At the time, I might have disagreed with it or been hurt by it, but the mere fact that they took the time to read my words and comment on it now means so much to me. They were my first beta readers. They taught me how to improve my writing. Best of all, so many of my teachers encouraged me with their feedback. I probably never would have had the confidence to keep writing without the notes they scribbled in red ink on my looseleaf pages.

Thank you to my teachers. Thank you to my beta readers. Thank you to everyone who’s ever commented on a post on this blog. Every comment means something. All feedback is taken into consideration in my next draft.

My writing is never going to be perfect, but it’s getting closer every time someone gives me feedback, whether it be positive or negative.

New Year, Same Nonsense

Every year, people ask me why I don’t make new year’s resolutions, Modern Philosophers, and I always tell them the same thing. Just because we hang up a new calendar and write a new year on our paperwork, it doesn’t mean life magically changes.

As far as I can tell after only four days, 2025 is no different than 2024, which was a lot like 2023 except 2024 had that extra day due to leap year. That’s not to say I don’t have high hopes for the coming months. I just finished a rewrite of my novel, and I plan to query it. I am hoping and praying that the results in 2025 will be different from those in 2024 and 2023, but I’m not putting much faith in that. Querying is a hard task with the ratio of rejection to acceptance being ridiculously unequal. The saving grace here is that I’ve always known writing is a difficult business. It’s my choice to keep going at it, and I will because I’m not a quitter.

I’d like to think things might change in the romance department. Much like querying, however, the ratio of rejection to acceptance is also ridiculously unequal in dating. At least the way I do it. I’m told other people are much more successful in this pursuit, but for some reason, no one seems to want to spend time with a neurotic, socially awkward introvert. I think that says more about society than it does about how poor of a catch I am.

My birthday is coming up, and I always use that as a barometer for how my year will go. I’m not expecting anything spectacular to happen. No surprise visitors knocking on my door with presents. No invites to dinner from a friend who doesn’t want me to be alone on my special day. I will most likely spend my birthday watching TV and writing. If I’m wild, I’ll stop at the grocery store and pick up a whoopie pie, so I have something sweet to enjoy.

Before anyone starts feeling sorry for me, I should clarify that I am okay with being on my own. I was married once, and that didn’t exactly end well. Sometimes, having someone around means more stress or feeling even lonelier than I do when I’m on my own. It’s a delicate balance, and when I’m feeling sorry for myself, I press my thumb down on the scales and make it seem like a “woe is me” moment. But that quickly passes. I am comfortable on my own. It allows me more time to write and there’s never an argument over what show to watch.

For those of you who do get invested in resolutions for the new year, I hope you are finding success in keeping them. Kudos to you for making a plan and sticking to it.

That’s enough rambling for now. I like to get the creative juices flowing before I work on my next project, so the blog is the perfect place to spill out some words and get any nagging thoughts out of my head. It’s much easy to write with a clear mind.

Happy Saturday!

No Resolutions

“I know you don’t make any new year resolutions, but do you at least consider 2024 to be a success and look forward to 2025?” Holly asks. She smiles and tilts her head to study his reaction.

Something about the way she’s looking at him reminds Aaron his best friend is a very attractive woman. As always, he buries those thoughts deep down in the darkest corner of his brain and hopes they won’t find their way back to the front any time soon.

It’s New Year’s Eve, and the best friends are seated on their favorite bench next to the river. It is unseasonably mild for the last day of the year, and the warmer temperatures fuel their decision to hang out by the water.

“I don’t usually give a year much thought,” he admits. “Tomorrow isn’t going to be any different from today. It’s not like completing a revolution of the sun wipes the slate clean or causes reality to alter in any way.” He takes a long sip of his Snapple. “But I understand that people cling to the idea that the calendar flipping to January means something magical happens and we all get a new chance to tackle life. I’ll play along if only to amuse you.”

Holly rolls her eyes and takes a drink of her coffee. “The sacrifices you make for me.” She laughs, which causes the freckles on her cheeks to do a dance. He knows they aren’t really dancing, but that’s how he always thinks of it. Not that he should be thinking about Holly’s freckles and the way they move when he amuses her.

“This year wasn’t that bad.” He quickly replies to get his mind off her freckles. And the fact that there are fifteen of them on her face. “I finished the rewrite of my first novel this week, so that ended things on a very positive note. Plus, I wrote a second novel earlier in the year, which is a pretty big accomplishment. Regardless of how poorly the querying process is going.”

She smiles. “I really am proud of you.” She pats his leg, and a million goosebumps explode all over his body. He sips his Snapple to try to hide how he reacted to her touch. “Writing those novels was a huge deal. I don’t care what the agents say, or don’t say when they ignore your queries. You are an amazing writer, and those stories are going to end up on the shelves of bookstores all over the country.”

“If I have to put them there myself,” he adds. They both laugh. “That is totally a joke. I would never do that. I wouldn’t want to visit so many bookstores and interact with all those people. Hopefully, a publisher will discover me and take care of the people part.”

Holly throws back her head and lets out a loud laugh. Her long hair sways behind her. “You are so ridiculous. I get that you are an insufferable introvert, but if you want to be a successful author, you’ll need to connect with your fans. Don’t you see yourself doing book tours, going on talk shows, and holding book signings?”

He cringes, which makes her giggle and punch him playfully in the arm. That causes another outbreak of goosebumps, and he shivers as a result. She gives him an odd look, but he answers her question before she can say anything. “I try not to think about the publicity I might have to do. Obviously, if it helps promote my book, I’ll do it. I’m getting way too ahead of myself. No one has shown any interest in my books. But let’s fantasize for a moment. Sure, I’ll do all the publicity stuff, that doesn’t mean I won’t be an anxious mess doing it. You’ll come along and help me get through it, right?”

Holly takes a long sip of her coffee, but her eyes are focused on him over her cup. “You’d really want me to be there?” She smiles sweetly. Maybe even blushes a little.

“Of course,” he replies without hesitation. “You’ve been supportive of my writing from the very beginning. If it weren’t for you refusing to let me quit, I would have given up on words years ago. If the world has to suffer through my writing, it’s going to be all your fault.” He smiles and his eyes twinkle, even though he is not aware of it.

“That’s sweet,” she admits. “Look at you using your superpower with words to end my year on a high note. I knew I let you be my best friend for a reason.”

“You keep me around so you can pick on me,” he clarifies. “You think you hide it well, but I know you better than anyone else.”

“I do not pick on you!” She feigns anger, but it’s hard to keep up the ruse when she’s laughing. And her freckles are doing that little dance.

He can’t ignore how beautiful she is. But he doesn’t have to say anything about it. He can just swallow those thoughts like he always does. “I think 2025 is going to be an excellent year.”

“Look at you being all positive. Did you slip something a little stronger than iced tea into your bottle?” she quips.

“You see? There you go picking on me. I told you.”

She sticks out her tongue at him. “I’m glad we decided to do nothing together on New Year’s Eve. It sure beats dressing up and going to some fancy party where the food is overpriced, and the band is a disappointment.”

“Agreed.” he replies. He pulls two Mounds bars out of his jacket pocket. “The food here is free and if you give me a second to do my vocal warmups, I promise you the musical entertainment will be top notch.”

Holly giggles and shakes her head. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Maybe we’ll figure that out in 2025.” He hands her one of the candy bars, and they turn their attention to the water. Both are smiling and neither would rather be anywhere else.

Emptying the Brain Basket

I’ve finally done it, Modern Philosophers! I have completed the latest rewrite of the Bruno novel and sent the manuscript to my beta readers.

What a relief! My brain feels like 86,400 words have been removed from it and there is finally some space for new ideas to take root and slowly blossom.

Longtime fans of this blog will remember that Detective Bruno first came to life on these very pages. I challenged myself to write a serial for the blog, like I was some sort of modern-day Charles Dickens, and Bruno’s first adventure was the result.

Since I had so much fun writing it, and your response was so positive, I wrote a second, Christmas themed serial with the same characters. It was meant to be a Christmas present to my beloved readers for all your feedback and loyalty to my silly stories.

Flash forward a few years, and those two serials are now the backbone of my manuscript. So much has changed since I posted the first installment on the blog, but the nuts and bolts of those stories are still there. Detective Bruno has gone through a major overhaul, but down deep, he’s still the same grumpy guy who can’t understand how a bumbling rookie could lose a dead body from a crime scene.

Input from readers and agents has been a key part of the process. After all, I’m a screenwriter by training and have no idea how to write a novel. Considering I made up the serials each week as I went along, the current manuscript is quite an achievement. Sure, I still made it up as I went along and never used an outline, but I know the characters so well now that it seems like they are real. It sometimes feels like I’m a crime reporter tagging along with Bruno and Wally on the case and writing down what I see.

Here’s hoping my beta readers enjoy the new draft. After that, I have to convince agents and publishers that Detective Bruno deserves his own series of novels. Perhaps 2025 will be a big year for me and my silly stories.

Thanks again for always being there, Modern Philosophers!

What About the Elves?

Ten-year-old Aaron and nine-year-old Holly sat at the kitchen table. She sipped a hot cocoa and wore a Santa Claus hat and Christmas sweater adorned with elves and reindeer. He drank a Snapple and wore a Yankees cap and a Grinch sweater.

It was Christmas Eve and two kids who barely knew each other tried to pass the time on a snowy afternoon.

“Do you think the elves hate Santa Claus for making them work on Christmas Eve?” he asked when the Christmas music stopped, and the radio station went to commercial.

She rolled her eyes. “That’s so stupid. Elves love making toys. It’s their reason for living. And who could possibly hate Santa Claus? Except, maybe, that monster on your sweater.”

Aaron looked down at his sweater like he’d forgotten what he was wearing. “The Grinch didn’t hate Santa Claus. If he did, he wouldn’t have dressed up like him.”

Holly shook her head emphatically. “He dressed up like Santa to fool the Whos into thinking he was the real thing when he was breaking into their homes to steal all the presents.”

He took a long drink of his Snapple. “Sounds like you hate the Grinch.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” she quickly rebutted. “He was a jerk who tried to ruin Christmas. I don’t get why you’re wearing a sweater with him on it. Are you saying you hate Christmas, too?”

Aaron shrugged. “I don’t hate Christmas. Who could hate free toys and all that yummy food? But maybe I dislike it a little. Not the way the elves do, though…”

“The elves don’t hate Christmas!” Holly yelled so loudly that it drowned out the song on the radio. “Why do you say such weird things?”

“Think about it,” he encouraged her. “Santa Claus makes them work all the time to build toys for children who never thank the elves for all their hard work. It’s Santa Claus who gets all the glory. He’s the one the songs are written about. He’s the face of Christmas. The elves really need to form a union or hire a lawyer. There’s no way their hours or wages are regulated. Who knows if Santa even pays them at all?”

Holly slides her chair a little further away from Aaron. “You’re angry and full of crazy ideas. I really wish my mom wouldn’t make me come over here.”

Aaron stuck out his tongue at her. “Anger and weird ideas aren’t contagious, so moving your chair isn’t going to do anything. It might, though, save me from catching your cooties.”

“I hate you!” Holly’s eyes widened at the realization that she had said something so mean on the day before Christmas. She quickly took a long sip of her hot cocoa to prevent her from saying anything else that would land her on the naughty list.

“I’m not a fan of hanging out with you, either,” he snapped. “Just because our mothers work together and volunteer to babysit when the other one needs help doesn’t mean we ever have to be friends.”

“Good. Because I would never want to be your friend!” Holly got up and moved to a chair on the other side of the table.

They avoided eye contact for a while and sipped their drinks while they listened to Christmas music. Aaron, who had never been comfortable with silence, finally spoke. “You can hate me all you want, but you should listen when I warn you that elves are going to snap one of these days. They’re going to realize they’re being overworked and underpaid and want revenge. They won’t go after Santa Claus because he’s magical and all. They’re going to take out their anger on us spoiled kids who get all the presents and never show any appreciation.”

“You are so weird,” Holly replied. “Don’t talk to me for the rest of the day.” She turned her attention to the window to look at the falling snow.

Aaron sipped his Snapple and thought about ways to protect himself from an elf uprising.

That Time on Top of the World

Today, Modern Philosophers, I was talking to someone I deeply admire. We were discussing my writing career, and she asked why I don’t write screenplays anymore. In Maine, everyone knows I’m a writer for The Nite Show and that I’m trying to get a book published.

But I used to live in Southern California, where I pursued my dream of writing movies. There was a time when it seemed I was destined for success. My screenplay got “discovered”, which led to a big option deal, an article in Variety, and several meetings with Hollywood types to talk about other projects.

A director was attached to my script. We had meetings. He gave me notes. We talked about casting Julia Stiles to play the lead. Then I optioned a second screenplay, which led to the biggest meeting of my life.

“Have I ever told you about the times I met Dr. Dre?” I asked this person I admire this morning. Usually when I tell the Dr. Dre story, it is to show off and impress. Today, however, it was different. It hit me that I hadn’t told this story in years, nor had I really given any thought to my meetings, the screenplay at the middle of it all, and how it led to my fleeing to Maine.

I’ve honestly forgotten how close I came to making this movie and having my life accelerate down a much different path. Maybe I’ve blocked it from my memory. Perhaps I don’t think about it because it’s too painful.

Regardless, I told her the story. I still remember the rooftop bar in downtown LA. Dre was there with his directing partner, Phillip Atwell. There were several bodyguards seated at the table behind us. I’d never met such a big celebrity or been in a meeting that required bodyguards. It was definitely a trip.

Dre really liked the screenplay. He spoke excitedly about it and his plans. Phillip and I joked about how he would execute the chase scene that involved a car jumping through the open car of a movie train. Dre teased him because he wasn’t sure if he could pull it off.

At this meeting, Dre gave me what I still consider to be the greatest compliment about my writing. “You are one sick motherf#$%^&”. I’m smiling just thinking about it.

My life was about to change in a very positive way. Dr Dre was going to produce my movie and the soundtrack. There was talk of Eminem and Snoop Dogg being cast. I was starstruck. I was on top of the world. I couldn’t believe this was my life.

And then it all fell apart because the producers who had optioned the script demanded a $500,000 fee for bringing Dre the script. I couldn’t talk them into lowering their ask. Dre got pissed off and walked away from the project.

He would eventually call several months later and invite me to his house to talk about another project, but that never panned out, either. I was so disheartened by the first deal falling apart that I decided to move as far from Hollywood as I could.

I used to ruminate on that failed project. Now I never think about it. Until it popped into my head today. What could have been.

Even though it all fell apart, it was an amazing moment in my life. It made me believe in my talents as a writer. I made it to a point where few writers ever get to be. I realized that chasing my dream was worth it.

When I told my meeting Dr. Dre story today, I remembered that I used to be one sick motherf#$%^&. And that’s not the sort of thing I should ever allow myself to forget…

You’re never a failure if take a chance, Modern Philosophers. You fail when you don’t put yourself out there.