The Power of Emotion

1 Jan

It’s been fifty years, this week, since my dad died in my arms.

Some dates .  . . some events . . . you never  forget.

We all have them.  Many times I’ve talked to people who remember exactly where they were and what they were doing when Kennedy was shot, or when the Challenger disintegrated, or when the Twin Towers were attacked.  We remember the finest details of those moments, even though we have a hard time remembering what we had for dinner three nights ago.

The power of emotion!

I remember the first kiss, the sweetness of it, one mystery unlocked.  I remember making love the first time, the frenetic, confusing energy of it, another mystery unlocked.  I remember several broken hearts, a love lost to a young death, tragedies and triumphs, slights and recognitions.  They were recorded in my memory banks, stored away, hermetically sealed in a Mason jar for safe-keeping, called upon from time to time, when story characters need a touch of humanity . . . and when I need a touch of humility.

I saw a “hanging tree” in New Iberia, Louisiana, and felt, at that time and at this time, sorrow for our  species, and I saw mangled limbs on veterans who paid the ultimate price for a government’s hubris.  I saw burned children in a hospital, and learned more about dignity from them than from anyone else in my lifetime.

Stored away . . . the power of emotion!

I’ve known addicts most of my adult life.  I’ve known hookers.  I’ve heard their stories and seen the pain on their faces, and that shit will stay with you forever, just as the testimony of the abused and discarded will brand your soul with the stench of truth.

The power of emotion!

I’ve shaken hands with Death and lived to tell of it.  I’ve comforted those who live in the aftermath of violence, and I’ve celebrated the seemingly mundane events of life with those who didn’t have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out.  I remember it all, and it all is reflected in my writing, in my voice, and in my style.

How could it not be?

Bill

“Helping writers to spread their wings and fly.”

Angst and Writing

25 Dec

I was watching a program on Netflix the other night . . . “Springsteen on Broadway” . . . I think that was the name of it.  Anyway, it was basically a one-man show, Bruce Springsteen, taking us on a journey through his life and explaining how many of his songs were inspired by things that happened in his life. It was a fascinating look inside the creative process.

At one point he stated that song writers need to be ANGRY in order for their lyrics to truly be meaningful and touch thousands.  He then modified that statement by saying PAIN of any sort will do, the point being that true lyrical genius comes from a deep well of emotions.  In order to make people feel your words, it is necessary for you to feel them.

I heard, basically, the same thing on a show called “The Voice.”  One of the coaches was telling her protégé to feel the lyrics of the song . . . that only by feeling those lyrics can you make the audience feel them as well.  She went on to say that songs become powerful messages when they are born from angst or from a deep well of love.

I tend to agree with that.  I’m not going to go so far as to say one cannot be a creative writer, or a poet, without angst, or anger, or pain, but I do think that those emotions fuel the truly great writers and poets.  I know for a fact that my best writing has erupted forth from a vault of emotions I keep tucked away just below the surface of my persona.

Just something to think about as you go about your day.

By golly, it is Christmas!  I wish you all a very Merry Christmas, or a very Happy Holidays, or simply the Finest Day of Love you can imagine!

Bill

“Helping writers to spread their wings and fly.”

A Storm is Coming

18 Dec

I see sunshine and beautiful colors

There is a storm heading our way.  It is Friday morning, 9:50 as I write this, and the storm is due to arrive around one this afternoon.  Those weather folks and their computer programs are pretty good at this stuff, so I’ll assume the storm will, in fact, arrive and bring with it high winds and drenching rains.

The thing is, right now, as I look out the window, it is incredibly calm.  There is no hint of wind. There are no drops of rain.  Still, I don’t doubt the storm will be here shortly.

Being a freelance writer and working for myself is a bit like that.  I know there will be problems even though, at this point in time, my business is doing quite well.  At some point a customers will drop my services and my income will suffer, and then the scramble to find new customers will begin again.  Perhaps I will be sick next week and unable to fulfill my responsibilities.  I have no backup; I either perform or the bills pile up.  Luckily, so far, I have performed, but there are no guarantees in writing or in life.

So I sit here and ponder these things as the storm approaches.  I have some billing to do, and I’m grateful I am able to send those invoices out and continue to pay my bills.  I’m grateful for whatever abilities I have which allow me to make a living doing what I love to do.  And I’m grateful to my parents, for instilling in me the confidence to work for myself, and to my friends, all of you, who continue to support me and give me encouragement.

Yep, there is a storm heading our way . . . but I’ll be ready for it!

Bill

“Helping writers to spread their wings and fly.”

Is Time On Your Side?

11 Dec

The Rolling Stones told us, back in the 60s, that time was on our side.

I think a lot about time lately.

When I was a teacher, my life was very time-detailed.  I knew the exact date, the exact time, and exact everything related to time because, well, it seemed important that a teacher be that way.

Now, working for myself, I rarely know the exact date.  There are some holidays which sneak right by me because, in many ways, I’m clueless about time now that I am in a different situation.  On a related note, there are times(events)  I’ve completely forgotten though, at the time, they seemed very important.  What’s up with that?

I’m as likely to remember the sweet time of my first kiss, decades ago, as I am to remember to make time to take the garbage out to the curb tomorrow.

Time is fleeting, and the older you get it becomes obvious that The Stones were full of baloney, but if it is fleeting, why is it that unpleasant moments seem to drag out forever, as though the hands on the clock are stuck in one position?

And then we have Dr. Seuss’s opinion on time:

“How did it get so late so soon? Its night before its afternoon. December is here before its June. My goodness how the time has flewn. How did it get so late so soon?”

More naps these days

Time is running out!  Well duh!  Time has been running out since the day we were born, and yet most of us act like we have an unlimited supply of it.

Do I have time to write the novels I still want to write? Do I have time to bestow on Bev the love she deserves?  Do I have time to become the man I’ve always wanted to be.

No, Mick Jagger, time is definitely not on my side.  I’d better get busy while I still have time.

Bill

“Helping writers to spread their wings and fly.”

The Routine Life

4 Dec

The familiar beep is annoying at best.  Ironic since I chose that particular sound because it was the least annoying.

Six a.m. on a Friday . . .

My world . . .

Stumble in the darkness, a daily metaphor, shower, toss down some orange juice, and settle down in front of the computer no later than 6:30.  That time is important to me, though I know not why.

Pound out the words, make customers happy, it’s always about the customers, check emails for instructions, communicate confusion, finally settle into a rhythm of content b.s. designed to score higher with the Google gods, what a silly, silly game I play . . . but it pays the bills and that cannot be ignored.

Everything goes smoothly, done by ten, giving me half an hour to slay some bad guys in my latest novel, and ten-thirty marks the time to clean up the kitchen and prepare for an early lunch with Bev, who is due home by eleven.

Day in, day out, sunrise, sunset, swiftly flow the years . . .

The afternoons are for the farm, feed the chickens, go for a walk with Maggie, make repairs to coops, that sort of thing, thoroughly enjoyable except during mud season, and then not so much, but even my worst days are pretty damned good.

More often than not inspiration visits me on the farm.  My muse loves it out there and, seriously, why wouldn’t she?

Home by three, clean up the house, feed dogs, check emails, organize for the next day, and settle in for Bev’s return at six-thirty.  Most evenings are for us, our alone time, the time when bonding happens and the marriage is strengthened.

And that’s how my days go.  I stick to a routine because, well, life is better for me in a routine. It’s taken me a lifetime to reach that realization. Obsessive-compulsive personalities, like mine, function better when the days are mapped out and randomness is eliminated.

And I’m fine with that.  I do all right.  I accomplish things within the confinement, not allowing the addictions to roam free. It’s worked well for me for twelve years now; don’t fix it if it ain’t broken, or as a mentor once told me, adopt the K.I.S.S. Method  .  . . Keep It Simple Stupid!

What works for you, works for you.  What works for me, works for me.

Bill

“Helping writers to spread their wings and fly.”

 

In Search of Inspiration

27 Nov

A forty degree November day, no rain, no wind, about as good as one can hope for in Rain Central, otherwise known as Olympia, Washington.

A man and his dog, walking down the road.

The shadows are longer in November, football fields in length, and somewhat menacing, although I know not why.  We are heading in the same direction as the sun, westward, young man, go west.  The sun appears tired in that place, at that time, tired like a three a.m. stripper after a four-set night, dragging ass and longing for the welcoming respite of the distant horizon.

Maggie is alert.  Deer up ahead, a couple hundred yards, Maggie notices, the doe notices, no contest in that race, Maggie left with dreams of what could have been, not so unlike most people if you give it a thought, pondering the shoulda beens and the coulda beens, all the while the sun keeps moving towards the west and another day of the nows is rapidly disappearing.

A coyote howls!

Canadian geese overhead, that distinct sound, that distinct flying formation, destination south, crossing over us, right to left, Maggie looks up, no way of knowing what she is thinking, her senses at that point on overload as the last of the maple leaves drift to the ground, giving up the fight for another season.

A chain saw in the distance, an angry growl from the machinery, a concerned growl from Maggie dog, a new sound she will categorize, store for future reference, all part of the learning experience out in the country.

Dew on the fields, shining, sparkling from the sun’s weak rays, seeming to dance for me and my dog, free entertainment for those willing to brave the chill and leave the city’s insanity for an hour or two.

This could be our home soon. We’re thinking about it, sell it all, downsize, buy a tiny home, move it onto the farm.  Seems like the thing to do, you know, pack it all in, say goodbye to the remaining debt, simplify, and embrace the countryside.  Maggie would be thrilled with the move.  Like many Americans, I’m just tired of the race.  There’s no enjoyment to it any longer.  At seventy, a slower pace sounds right, you know?  I’m not talking about putting the brakes on, mind you, because I think it’s important to stay active and have a purpose.  No, I’m just talking about gearing down a bit, enjoying it more, adding to the special memories while there is still time, before that sun reaches the horizon for the last time.

There is still growth to experience. There is still time to become the man I want to be.  I can still raise my consciousness.  I can still accomplish so much.

Random thoughts on this November day, a man and his dog, walking down a country road.

SIDE NOTE:  This is my writing process, in case you were wondering.  I find inspiration while living my life, and I wanted to share part of that process with you.  The simile I used, about the stripper, was part of the process. I’m always trying new similes. That one might find its way into a novel one of these days.

Until then,  I’ll keep on practicing as fall turns to winter here in God’s Country.

Bill

“Helping writers to spread their wings and fly.”

Wishing You Peace

20 Nov

It would take me a month of Sundays to list the many things I am thankful for, and I just don’t have the time to do that . . .

But without a doubt, all of you would be on that list!

Let’s not mess around this week with discussions about writing . . . let’s just share in the thanks, the happiness, and the love of Thanksgiving!

Thanks to you all!

Love to you all!

Happy Thanksgiving!

Bill

“Helping writers to spread their wings and fly.”

The Origins of a Literary Character

13 Nov

Someone asked me the other day where the inspiration for my character Eli Baker, in the Shadows Series, came from.

I suppose the answer would be from several people and characters I have known and/or seen in movies, but the main inspiration came from Charles Bronson and a movie called Death Wish.  In that movie, and in sequels, Bronson plays a character named Paul Kersey, and out of revenge for unthinkable things done to his family, Kersey sets out to wreak havoc on the local criminal community.

I liked that concept of uncontrollable rage AND the idea of roaming the underworld, wiping out the bad guys, and being so good at it as to be almost immune from harm or prosecution.

But I wanted that Kersey character to have more depth, and for depth I turned to a fictional police officer called Dave Robicheaux in the James Lee Burke novels.  I loved the way Burke’s characters were philosophical as they waded through the detritus of society.

And finally I wanted a paranormal/supernatural element to it all, so I put Eli Baker in touch with the spirits of victims of violent crimes, and in turn his battles were actually against Evil itself, an ongoing battle between Eli Baker (Good) and the Evil character.  Neither can be killed as they are locked in a battle which truly has no end.

Put it all together, heat at 350 for an hour, and you have my central character Eli Baker.

AND THEN SOMEONE ASKED

Do you really believe there is an Evil being, Bill?  And to that I say I am certainly open to the concept.  It would appear no stranger than believing in a character who represents ultimate good . . . aka God . . . so why not Evil?  It seems to me if you are going to hang your hat on the concept of God, you certainly should be open to the concept of Evil.

Was Ted Bundy mentally ill, or was Ted Bundy the personification of Evil?

How about the Green River Killer?

How about Hitler?

I guess we will all find out when we die.  Until then, I’m going to turn Eli Baker loose and let him do battle with Evil. I sleep better knowing he’s on the job while I sleep.  Lol  And he’s in one hell of a battle in “The Magician’s Shadow,” my latest due out in January.

AND THEN SOMEONE ASKED

How much longer are you going to write, Bill?

That’s like asking how much longer I’m going to breathe.

I am a writer.  This is what I do. I love creating.  I love communicating in this way. I love building a legacy of the written word.

Why in the hell would I stop?

Have a great week, unless you’ve made other plans!

Bill

“Helping writers to spread their wings and fly.”

What We Do Matters

6 Nov

An old classmate from long ago died last week.

No, it’s all right, really.  He wasn’t a close friend, just one of thousands of people who pass through our lives over the years so please, there is no reason to tell me how sorry you are.

I mention it because, when I heard he died, my mind immediately sprang into action, remembering back, tall kid, thin, bookish, quiet, a bit clueless with regards to sarcasm, and quite concerned about the political landscape of that time.  I remember he liked classical music, and I only remember that because I knew him in the 60s.  While we all listened to The Beatles and the Stones, he was listening to Mozart.

And that is the total of my memories about him.  We never ran into each other after school. I have no idea what became of him, where his actions took him, or anything about any accomplishments.  I knew him for four years and that was it.

My other thought, and this is brutal honesty, was “whew, I outlived another one,” because seriously, I think we all have that fleeting thought, especially once we reach a certain age.

WHAT’S THE POINT, BILL?

So anyway, this all got me to thinking, I wonder what people will think of when it is my turn to pass on, and they hear about it, and that got me to thinking that we are all memories in the making.

Now, depending on how you have lived your life, there is either great comfort in that thought, or there is reason to break out into the cold sweats of regret.  Just more random thoughts, my friends . . . what we do matters . . . what we say matters . . . how we treat others matters.

I’ve talked before about our writings, our novels, our blogs, our articles and our short stories, and how they are part of our legacy forever, and how cool is that?  Hundreds of years from now our words will be read by new generations.  But there is more to us than our words.  There is more to us than the books we leave behind.

What we do matters!

Just something to think about as November slides into view.

Make life matter!

And of course November brings with it Thanksgiving, and I am so damned grateful that I am a writer.

And for those who asked, I am now halfway through my latest novel, “The Magician’s Shadow.”

Bill

“Helping writers to spread their wings and fly.”

Celebrating Imperfections

23 Oct

I was listening to a friend the other day as she lamented what she saw as a character flaw of hers. The nature of that flaw is not important for this venue, but suffice it to say it really did upset her, so much so that she finally said “oh my God, I’m so fucked up!”

I could relate.  There have been countless times, in the past, when I’ve said basically those same words, and truly felt the angst associated with those words down to the depths of my soul.

The other day, though, I just listened until she was finally on empty, and then I gave her the message I think is important for all of us to internalize:  we are all fucked up!

Show me a person without issues and I’ll show you a person I have no desire to know.

An old mentor of mine said it best: we are spiritual beings having a human experience.  In other words, we are imperfect on the best of days, and always will be while we rent this particular piece of cosmic real estate.

I try to remember that when I’m creating characters for a novel. We are all imperfect and we all have issues.

I actually find great comfort in embracing my imperfections.  In my humble opinion, perfection is greatly overrated.  Imperfection is where it is at for this boy.

It is also the reason why I don’t give advice unless it is asked for. Who am I to give advice, particularly on life’s issues?  I’m a recovering alcoholic, for God’s sake.  I’ve been divorced.  I have made more mistakes than Carter has liver pills.  Old joke!  And I should tell someone else how to live?

Not likely!

More naps these days

So I’m all about love, and one reason for it is purely selfish: I need as much love as I can get, and it’s my hope that by giving love I will, in turn, receive it.

Just sayin’

Have a great day no matter your “issues.”

Bill

“Helping writers to spread their wings and fly.”