Hello/Goodbye

This is hard for me.

On the one hand, this is the last post I’ll do on Under the Sun.  I’ve enjoyed writing in this blog.  I loved talking about the things going on in the world and in my life, and it’s helped me overcome massive insecurity and anxiety about sharing my writing.  I’ve learned a small bit about self-promotion, and hopefully, I’ve left a smile on faces or made people think.

And while I’m going to shut down this blog, I’m not vanishing.  I’m starting a new one on my new author website.   And everything that’s here will remain here.  Just saying.

Thank you so much for taking the time and the interest to listen to the random thoughts rattling around my brain.  I do sincerely hope you'll come with me to the new address, which will be opening on February 2nd: www.authorfranklynthomas.com.  

I’ll make sure to turn the lights out as I leave.

Progress Report: The New Site

Hey, you guys!

It’s another bi-weekly progress report!

I’ve completed two short stories this month: Red Light Confessional and Father Figures.  The first has an escort dealing with her strangest client: a priest on his deathbed.  The second is a sort-of sequel to my first novel, The Fab 5.  Red Light Confessional will be available to read on my website in February along with two other stories, and Father Figures will be up in March.

Wait, whaaaaat?

Yes, I’m relaunching my website.  I’ve taken the advice about trying to build an author platform, and one of those bits of advice is a one-stop shop for hawking my wares and showing off my stories.  I made a promise that this year would be the year I made more of an effort to make the business end of writing work.  The new site will be up on February 1 and will include writing samples, character profiles, release updates and a new home for my blog.

Which means, yes, I’m in the process of packing the boxes for Under The Sun.  It’s almost moving day.  I will say this, I’m not going to strictly post about writing, or more specifically, what I’m writing.  There will be progress updates, sure, and talks about the craft, but life also happens and I’ll talk about that too.

At any rate, I hope you’ll join me at the new site when it’s up and running.  Cheers!

Place In History

There have been only a few “Where were you?” moments in my lifetime.

9/11.  President Obama’s inauguration.  These are the watershed moments in my lifetime, events that changed my perception of the world.  And eight years after the last one, another inauguration is poised to do that yet again.

Say hello to President Trump.

I’m going to make this as non-partisan and non-political as I can.  This is a “Where were you?” moment.  It is the end of an historic presidency with one of the most universally-beloved public figures in recent history, and the beginning of a new one, with someone who is one of the most divisive figures in recent history.  It is a history-making moment in ways that are too numerous to count.  And while I will not watch the actual ceremony, nor will I watch the ball afterwards, I will be entirely cognizant of where I am when he takes the oath of office, whether I’m taking a nap, or making a sandwich.

However, I encourage you all to be aware of where you are, because for better or worse, the world you live in is going to change.  It may not change all at once, or even in ways that are immediately noticeable, but change is most definitely imminent.  And we should all be aware of not just where we are, but what we’re doing and how we got there.

I remember when I was in high school, and I talked to someone who remembered where they were when Kennedy was assassinated.  I remember talking to people who remembered where they were when Reagan got shot.  Hell, I remember where I was when the Notorious B.I.G. was murdered.  And I’m sure we all remember the events in our lives leading up to and immediately following the first tower impact, as well as what we were doing when Barack Obama took the oath of office.

This is one more of those times.

Take stock of where you are and what you’re doing, because you’re going to want to tell your children about this.  This is going to be historic.

No one said all history we make must be good.

Allow Me To Reintroduce Myself

All my hip-hop heads have a conditioned response to the title.  But this isn’t a post about Jay-Z.

I went home to New York City for the second time in the last three months.  I love being there.  Every time I am, I rediscover parts of my city (and ostensibly, parts of myself) that I simply adore.  The subway, Times Square, Union Square, Downtown Brooklyn, all of these places and many more have played essential parts in my development.

I go back to New York to reconnect with parts of myself that don’t go over as well in smaller venues.  Qualities like brashness and a high-strung nature don’t necessarily play so well in other cities, and it’s a shame.

It’s a common saying that you can’t go home again. There’s a degree of truth to that, I guess, if you’re referring to home as a building of apartment.  Eventually, the people that made your house a home leave, your neighborhood changes, and that part of your life fades into memory.  But home is more than just a place, home is a feeling, a sense of being in the right place.  And every time I come home I feel like I’m where I’m supposed to be, even if it’s for a weekend.

Now, if only I could afford it for longer than that.

In the meantime, I reintroduce myself to the city, and by proxy, myself. I can see all the ways I have changed for being away, good and bad.  I may not be as impatient or excitable anymore, I may not have as much direct access to stimulus anymore, but I can appreciate clean air now, and even quiet to a degree (in small amounts). 

Unfortunately for the people in the much smaller town in which I currently reside, though, I now have a six-month supply of being a New Yorker in my system.  Please forgive me.

Thank You, Beta Readers!!

A couple of months ago, I sent out a bunch of copies of my lasts manuscript to beta readers.  It’s hard to edit your own stuff, and anytime you spend 5 years working on a project, you become way too close to it to see what really works, and what doesn’t.

Some of my betas have gotten back to me, red pens and questions ablaze.  They’ve questioned things about characters and events, about the necessity of certain scenes, even about little nuances in the premise.  I’ve listened to every suggestion I’ve gotten, and even though I may not use them all, the fact that they’ve taken the time to read through and critique my work means that I’ve taken all the critiques very seriously.  So, to the beta readers who have gotten back to me, thanks!

Some of the beta readers haven’t gotten back to me yet, and it’s cool, I get it, life is busy.  I thank you anyway for taking an interest.

So now comes the painful work of making those big structural changes that need to be made, and putting together the last draft I’m doing without professional help, be it from an editor or a psychologist.  Hopefully, I can have that done by the end of the month.  No pressure, right?

I can’t thank you enough, all the people who volunteered to help make this the best novel it can be.  As promised, I will thank everyone who got back to me individually in the acknowledgements page of the final finished draft.

Cheers!

What I Read in 2016

In 2015, I did a GoodReads Readers’ Challenge, where I tried to read 12 books in a calendar year.  I did 10 or 11, but I liked the experience so much that I decided to do it again.  This time, I crushed the goal by August.

So then I said, “Why stop there?”

I bumped the goal up to 16, and got there in October.  I was feelin’ froggy, so I shot for 20.  I got to 17 before life took over.

As with last year, some were surprisingly bad, some were shockingly good, and one book made me wonder why I even write.  I read 10 books that were part of 2 individual series (so, yeah, there’s that).  I’ve read hundreds of thousands words that weren’t my own.  I wrote reviews of some of them early on, so I’ll post blurbs from those here.  But for the ones I haven’t reviewed yet, this is where it starts.

Here we go…

Telegraph Avenue by Michael Chabon: I started this in late 2015.  It’s a hefty read, incredibly dense, and follows Archie Stallings and his failing record store on Telegraph Avenue in Oakland, California. The other book of Chabon’s that I read, The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, was a fantastic bit of wonderful that fell into a “stick with it, you’ll love it category.”  Like Kavalier and Clay, Telegraph Avenue took a while to find its footing.  Unlike Kavalier and Clay, the payoff wasn’t worth it.  The author seemed less concerned with storytelling, and more concerned with showing us that he’s a talented writer.  That culminated in a chapter that consisted of an 11-page sentence.  11 pages.  One sentence.  I was incredibly disappointed.  There is good stuff there, though, the relationships between the characters feel real and you ultimately do care for the struggles of Archie and his family, but the juice isn’t worth the squeeze.  Goodreads rating: 1*

Assassin’s Code by Jonathan Maberry:  From the review posted on February 16, 2016:  I've become a big fan of the Joe Ledger series. I look at it as the popcorn movie in my TBR list. Are we getting deep, life changing events? No. Are we getting radical philosophical shifts? Of course, not. But what we are getting is fast-paced, highly entertaining action. And I'll take it.  Goodreads rating: 4*

Ex-Heroes by Peter Clines:  From the review posted on February 17, 2016:  One part Avengers, one part Dawn of the Dead, sprinkle a little of The Warriors in there and you have Ex-Heroes, an entertaining novel that clips along at a rapid pace.

Two years after civilization fell, Los Angeles became split into two communities: The Mount, a converted movie studio lot watched over by a mismatched team of super heroes-- The Mighty Dragon (glides, invulnerable, breathes fire), Cerberus (scientist in a giant armored suit), Gorgon (vampire stare), Zzzap (living electric dynamo), Regenerator (heals himself and others) and Stealth (genius billionaire fashion model turned ninja)-- and the Seventeens, an LA gang that seeks to expand its turf in this new world order. Between the two groups lies the rest of LA's 5 million residents, all dead, all walking. But things get a little weirder when the zombies -- the ex-humans-- start talking. And making demands.

I like superheroes and I like some zombie stuff, so of course I liked this book. It screams of an idea that's too good to pass up, a "why didn't I think of this?" sensibility. There are some small issues to be sure regarding an improperly reflected diversity in the city of Angels, but overall this was a very enjoyable read.  Goodreads rating: 4*

Ex-Patriots by Peter Clines:  Original review posted February 17, 2016: I gotta say, this has been plenty of fun!

Ex-Patriots, the second book in the Ex-Heroes series, continues a couple of months after where Ex-Heroes left off. The super powered heroes of The Mount -- a community of zombie apocalypse survivors in L.A. -- are recovering from their war with the Seventeens, a street gang in the city who had their own survivor community and were led by Peasy, a man with the ability to control the zombies. They are contacted by the remnants of the US military, an enhanced soldier project called Krypton, led by Captain Freedom (actually his name) and Agent John Smith of DHS and DARPA. After agreeing to visit their base outside of Yuma, Arizona, the heroes find that there is more going on than they were led to believe, complete with a mad scientist and a small army of zombie soldiers, as well as a villain with mind-control powers.

Yes, it was predictable, but it was an extremely fun read, if for no other reason than the fact that I'm a big comic-book nerd. The action clips along at a frenetic pace and there aren't any lulls. And two books in, Zombies vs. Superheroes still holds up as a concept. Goodreads rating: 3.5*

Adultery by Paulo Coelho:  From the review posted on February 27, 2016:  Adultery is the running inner monologue of a woman in her 30's who has everything she can ask for -- perfect children, a husband who adores her, a fulfilling career, the ability to flit about the world at a whim -- and yet is terribly unhappy, largely because she chooses to be.  She inexplicably one day blows a politician (who happens to be the ex-boyfriend from high school that she was so into that she fantasized about him constantly through her adolescence), and that kick-starts a vicious cycle self-hatred and bad decision-making, all while her doting husband tries desperately to help her find her way of whatever depression and melancholy she happens to be in.

I find characters who do the  super-entitled pity party ("woe is me, I have everything) to be grating, especially when they narrate the story, as in Adultery and  Douglas Brunt's Ghosts of Manhattan. It's hard to empathize with them as a reader because for me at least, it's impossible to understand them, especially when at the end, they haven't changed very much because their lives are so insular, so perfect, they're not required to.  Adultery's narrator, Linda, almost ruins two marriages -- her own and her lover's -- and never has to face the consequences. She's spared the humbling embarrassment of having to say she cheated, while putting her lover in a position to lie to his wife's face.  At the end of the day, her relationship with her husband somehow ends up stronger because she realizes that she has it all and decides it's not a prison.  I mean... come on.  Goodreads rating: 2*

From here, I read the remainder of the Joe Ledger series (Extinction Machine, Code Zero, Predator One, and Kill Switch) and the Ex-Heroes series (Ex-Communication, Ex-Purgatory, Ex-Isle).  To sum up: big dumb fun.  No new ground broken.  3 stars.

Dodgers by Bill Beverly:  Powerful read.  Bill Beverly puts together a twisted coming of age story involving teenage gangbangers on a cross-country road trip from South Central LA to Wisconsin to assassinate a key witness to a crime.  I couldn’t put it down.  It’s the kind of book that sticks with you for months after you finish it.  Goodreads rating: 4*

The Travelers by Chris Pavone:  Slick novel about an accidental spy that makes a job in publishing seem extravagant and glamorous.  Travel journalist Will Rhodes finds himself embroiled in international intrigue when he finds out that Travelers Magazine is a front for a private spy ring, and his wife is one of those spies.  It’s a fun read that I got through in about a week.  Chris Pavone’s style is very engaging.  Goodreads rating: 3.5*

Moonlight Serenades by Thom Carnell:  From the review posted on July 8, 2016:

This collection is a guided tour through one man's process of dealing with grief, and in that tour, some of the images he uses will stay with you for weeks. From the opening story, which left me audibly exclaiming in public, to the centerpiece, a very clever noir called "Clown Town," Thom Carnell's Moonlight Serenades is incredibly addicting, and sticks with you like a great meal.  Highly recommended.   Goodreads rating: 5*

Dark Matter by Blake Crouch:  Six hours, from start to finish.  Far and away the best book I read in 2016, and there are some heavy hitters in this list.  Physics professor Jason Dessen is abducted and finds himself transported to a life where his wife is not his wife, his son’s not born, and nothing is quite the same.  And that’s about all I can say without confusing you or spoiling the story.  Like The Martian from last year, this is a must-read.  Drop everything.  Do it now.  Goodreads rating: 5*

Chasing Embers by James Bennett:  Modern fantasy tale about a man who is secretly a dragon and can shift form at will.  A breakdown in a magical pact sends various factions of witches and assassins to kill him in service of a newly reawakened dragon queen.  Fantasy was never my thing, but this was fun.  The prose and storytelling was a bit dense, though.  Goodreads rating: 4*

And there you have it!  That’s my list from 2016.  Let’s see if I can do better this year!

New Year's Resolutions 2017

For me, 2016 was ugly.

There’s the stuff that happened that affect all of us, such as the Brexit and our election.  There’s the rash of celebrity death.  But then there’s the personal stuff, the things we could have done better, the opportunities we wish we’d capitalized on. The stubborn last 10 (or 15, or 20) pounds we couldn’t quite erase.

So, like every year, this year we make a list of all the things we’d like to make different.  And this year, like every year, I’ll do that.   In 2017, I want to…

Write more.  I have a few projects I’d like to finish in 2017, but it’s damn hard sometimes to pull up the desire to write.  Fatigue and life tend to get in the way.  This year I joined a 365-day writing challenge, where I’m pledged to get out at least 300 words a day through either my personal journal, blogs, or my projects.  Accountability is the best motivator.

Lose weight.  I’ve had a hell of a time trying to lose some weight.  It’s rough; I work overnights, I like bad food, and I really like to sleep more than not.  But as I get older, it gets harder, and I can’t use the difficulty as an excuse.  Ideally, I’d like to get myself back into basketball shape, into softball shape, and into a shape other than round.

Speak up.  I have a terrible problem; I want to be liked way too much.  Part of it is about not wanting to offend people, especially fans and potential fans.  However, that restraint has found its way into my personal life, and I am far too accommodating when it comes to other people’s comfort, and I’ve sugar-coated, watered down, and reduced the volume on my own opinions.  It’s become a terrible habit.  It stops now.

Be healthy.  I’ve spent the last year in grind mode.  I’ve worked as often as I can, to the point of it being unhealthy.  It’s a lot of 12-hour night shifts, packed into short spans of time; on several occasions, I’ve worked 26 of 30 nights in a month. It started to affect my overall health negatively.  I was having dizzy spells and issues with energy.  I’m going to relax more this year.

Grow the “business.”  I’m a good writer, I think, but a terrible author.  What I mean is I’m not so good at the part of the job that involves selling.  I’m using 2017 as an impromptu course in Book Marketing in the Digital Age.  Let’s see what can be done.

I may not accomplish everything I set out to this year, or I may not have set my bar high enough.  I can’t answer that on January 2^nd.  But I will work my butt off to make 2017 a better year.

What We Leave Behind

It may just be me, but 2016 was rough on the celebrity crowd.

It seemed like, for the last 52 weeks, two or three names of people I’d known by watching on TV, through reading their books, or listened to on the radio at some point were crossed off the list.  Upwards of 200 well-known names were removed including, most recently, Carrie Fisher, and her mother, Debbie Reynolds.

I hope that’s the most recent, at least.

At any rate, over the last few months, I’ve been thinking about the Future.  Not about flying cars or moon colonies or what have you, but about if or why I’ll be mourned when I’m gone (I’m not sick, mind you).

Will people remember that I wrote?

Will people remember that I was close with my family?

Will people remember me as someone who tried?

Will people remember me at all?

I think we celebrate people who left legacies behind – tangible evidence of their existence – because by celebrating that, touching that, we matter.  And we all get caught up in the legacy we leave behind, be it our children, a great work of art, a great discovery, or some political achievement, because we want to matter to the world around us.

The celebrities who have died this year – while no more tragic than anyone else’s death – left something behind in their varied works.  We honor how that work made us feel.

And to the countless regular people who died this year, people we knew and loved, people we observed casually in passing, we are their legacy, for they have touched us as well.

As we close out 2016, let us try to remember that we are all connected and we all affect everything we come across.

Safe travels.

What We Hold On To

As 2016 comes to a merciful end, it’s natural to think of all that we’ve lost.

If you’re anything like me, from the same time or era, the world is fundamentally different now than it has ever been simply based on the loss of touchstones to our youth.  The incredibly long list of pop culture icons that we have lost this year is staggering and includes people like Prince and George Michael, like Muhammad Ali and Jose Fernandez.  It includes stars who shone bright and men who reached for the stars.  Men and women whose decisions – good, bad, or indifferent – shaped the discussions on what we hold important in this country.  We’ve seen an unprecedented election cycle, which is saying something because we are coming off two terms of the first black President.

This is not the world we know.

But there’s one thing we should hold on to, and that’s hope.  It’s not as difficult as you might think, because everything we do as individuals, I like to think, is rooted in hope. You get out of bed because you hope you make a difference, or you hope today will be a good day, or you hope you make enough to get by.  You have children, participate in their lives because you hope you can teach them to do right, and hope you can teach them to improve the world around them.  Hell, you even drink because you hope to numb the pain of the past.  You fight with loved ones, you work through things with loved ones because you hope they can be better

.

Hope keeps us coming to the table.

So, I suggest we hold on to it.  I suggest we keep getting out of bed, we keep teaching our children right, we keep fighting and working.  We act as agents of hope.

I hope I’ve made myself clear.

Something About Winter...

So, Bellingham has just emerged from a week-and-a-half long deep freeze, complete with snow and ice, barely drive-able roads, and requisite traffic accidents.

Is it weird that I was made homesick?

New York is one of the great winter cities in the country.  Yes, I am biased a bit, but hear me out.  New York has earned a reputation for being a rough place, filled with blunt, rude people who will run you over if you get in their way.  It's a crucible that takes the weak-minded, undisciplined, and poor and either forge them into something stronger, or kills them under the weight and pressure of living there.  Some of that rep is justified, some isn't.  It's not up to me to sift through which is which.

However, for the six weeks between Thanksgiving and New Year's Eve, the city softens a bit.  Maybe it's the brainwashing from all the holiday music that yo hear from every place that has a speaker, but for that time, it never seemed as bad.  People were generally nicer to one another.  Kindness was seen on the surface.  As people geared up for the season, you could see it, feel it, a particular and unique kind of spirit.

It's the same as in small towns, when you see a kid's face light up as they meet Santa (TM) for the first time.  The big city is no different.  The Salvation Army still rings bells at every street corner, and people still drop their spare change into the big red pots.  Lights are strung up from every lamppost, intersections are made more festive.  Storefronts put up amazing displays.  And while NYC does it on an entirely different scale...

... it's still Christmas.  Or Hanukkah.   Or whatever you want to call it.

Don't get me wrong, New York in the dead of winter offers bone-chilling temperatures, schizophrenic weather patterns, and sometimes a kind of bleak that there isn't a word for, but for those six weeks, that specific time of year, it doesn't seem half bad.

Other Than Politics...

In light of the season, I scoured some old writing and found this interesting bit.  Originally Posted December 1, 2009.


A friend posted that she wanted to know what true love is. 

It's a question I've often asked myself, and shied away from very scary answers. I came up with clever commentary ("If I can love you like i love family and still want to sleep with you") and funny analogies ("If I can love a woman the way I love the Yankees..."), even bad movie quotes (True love is the soul recognizing its counterpoint in another) but the truth is, I never really thought about it. Until, that is, another friend reminded me of the origin of love.

Yourself.

The love you feel when you look in the mirror should be absolute, despite the zits and the morning breath, the crusty eyes and the five pounds that won't go away. One should look at oneself in the mirror and smile, for you've already seen your best ally, the person who should be looking out for you the most in the world. You should be your own reset button, and when the world seems jacked beyond belief, you should look to you to re-center. You are the star of your own single camera show. Just please, stop yourself before tweaking your own nipples.

Now once you can identify that love within yourself, if you can recognize the love of self within someone else, and still have space to love that person, and that person still has space to love you, THAT is true love.

So What'd I Miss?

SO... did anything interesting happen in the world since September?

Okay, that's a bad joke.  But it feels like I've been under a rock for the last few months, which makes for very bad platform building.

Can't believe I just used that term.

Anyway, as the year winds down, I've come to realize I haven't put nearly the focus I should have on the stuff that's important to me: specifically, my writing "career."  But that will change, and soon.

This blog will evolve into something more, and I would love to bring you all with me along the way.

All... five... of you, following this.

Okay, so maybe my reach needs some work.

Shameless Self-Promotion: Chapter 6 of the next project

Hey all...

I'm going through a first pass of my next book, before an editor can get to it, and before beta reads.  But... I figure a little out-of-context taste of what I'm doing couldn't hurt.

So, all feedback is welcome.  Enjoy!

6.

Alex

     Don’t know what to expect as I pull up in the driveway.  That guy – whoever he was – doesn’t still have a car here, so bonus for that.  There’s nothing worse than finding some strange dude’s sports car on my street.  My darling wife’s car is still here.  Maybe not so much a bonus.  I’m not sure if I’m going to pack some stuff and hit a hotel, or tell her to pack her shit.  I’m not sure I want do either.

     I can’t get the last 10 hours out of my head.  The kiss in the bar.  Watching Sabrina.  Catching, I mean.  Catching Sabrina.  This morning with Lucy.

     Lucy and I went at it hard today.  The way she moved, how she looked perched up on me.  The natural tightness of her body, how her ass and tits defied gravity, but she clearly hasn’t spent a minute in the gym.  Not muscular, not fluffy, just the perfect body at the perfect time in her life.  You can’t replace youth, and she can’t be any older than 25. 

I haven’t been with anyone since I met Selena.  That’s ten years of being completely faithful.  I should feel bad.  Guilty.  But I don’t, not really.  I mean, she fucked up first.  I am absolutely justified. 

So why don’t I feel good about it? 

Ah, this sucks.  Every time I think I feel guilty, I can’t stop the image of watching… catching her bent over on the living room floor.  Every time I think Sabrina’s a whore, I picture Lucy, on top of me with her hands on my chest and her top teeth tugging at her bottom lip, and her body rocking back and forth with her dark curls covering her red face.

     I’m slow and deliberate as I turn the key.  I hope she’s sleeping.  I hope she doesn’t hear me.  Kind of wish I could just fast-forward past this.

Sabrina

     The key turning in the deadbolt lock wakes me from the power nap I was taking on the couch.  I check the clock on the wall – minutes to noon – and realize that it’s been close to six hours since I heard that little performance.  I probably shouldn’t be so fucking mad; he did walk in on a compromising situation, but I can’t help myself.  I can hear my heartbeat.  It sounds like explosions in my head.  I’m dizzy.  Gotta breathe.  Breathe.  Slow it down.  Inhale, exhale.  Why the fuck is it so hot in here?  Do I have a fever?  This is a hell of a time to get sick.

     Six hours.  Not a call.

     Six hours ago, I was hoping that the man I loved wasn’t dead, or didn’t leave me.  Now I wish he had. 
     Left, I mean.  I don’t want him dead.  I don’t think, anyway.
     He opens the door and glances at me before heading up the stairs to the bedroom.   I still don’t quite know what to say.  I’m hurt, angry, embarrassed, sorry, and have no idea which one is the right one to express.  I can hear him sifting through drawers and slamming them closed.  A few minutes of that and he heads into the kitchen.  I guess his night made him hungry.

     I figure I should take a look at the damage he’s done to the bedroom.  I get in there and see all my clothes, dumped in a pile all over our bed.  I check the top two dresser drawers.  They’re empty.  So are the laundry baskets and my side of the closet.  Everything I own in this bedroom is on the bed.

I rush down to the kitchen and see him leaning on the breakfast bar, drinking a glass of orange juice.  He looks at me, takes a giant chug and puts the glass down on the counter.

     I want you to leave, he says to me.

Alex

     I walk into the house and there she is, on the couch wearing her bathrobe, just sitting there, like she was waiting for me to get home.  I catch her out of the corner of my eye, looking up at me.  Something in her eyes, a look of anger, maybe a touch of regret.  It’s too much and I’m not ready yet to return the look.  I head to our bedroom and have a seat on the bed.  This is the first real breath I’ve had all day.  I stare at the furniture in the bedroom, all a deep brown cherry-wood, polished and lacquered.  They were her choice, and I have grown to like it.  I stand up in front of the dresser and before I really know what I’m doing, I’ve emptied the top two drawers.  I go into the closet, yank down all the hangers from her side and grab her laundry basket.  All her stuff, her sweatpants, her underwear, t-shirts, I’ve dumped them all onto the bed.  I hustle my way back to the kitchen; she’s not on the couch anymore.  I need a drink.

     I pour half a glass of orange juice and add a splash of vodka.  It helps me calm my nerves.  I take a gulp and notice her standing at the entrance to the kitchen, staring at me with this “what did you do?” look.

     I want you to leave, I say to her.

     Her mouth drops open a bit, a reaction to shock.  I don’t buy it.  There’s no way she didn’t see this coming after last night.

     “Excuse me?” she says.  Her voice is trembling, like she’s trying to hold on to her last bit of calm.

     I need you gone.  I can’t be here with you anymore.

     She bites her lip.  She’s holding back tears.  “And where do you expect me to go?”

     Not my problem, I say.  You probably should have thought of that before you brought your boyfriend home.

     She goes red in the face.  “He’s not my boyfriend,” she starts to say.

     I don’t give a shit who he is, actually.  This marriage is over.

     She can’t stop the tears now.  “And what, that’s my fault?  Where were you last night?”

     I pause; should I tell her?  It doesn’t matter where I was, I say.

     “Who were you with?”

     What are you talking about?

     “Don’t play stupid.  I heard you with a woman when I called you.  You forgot to hang up your phone last night, you ass.”

     It hits me; that’s why my phone battery died all of a sudden.  I didn’t hang up when I threw it down.  A momentary wave of relief comes over me; that was an expensive phone and I would hate to think I damaged it.

     Pot calling the kettle black, don’t you think? I say.

     “So what, you had to go get revenge?  Hurt me for hurting you?”  She huffs and puffs and wipes away tears.  “I hope the bitch was worth it.”

     Fuck you, I tell her.  I’m yelling now, I don’t ever yell at her.

     “Obviously not,” she says.  “Can’t believe it took this to realize you never really did it for me.”

     She says that and I feel my heart stop.  I get in her face, nose-to-nose, angry with her like she’s a guy.  I feel like I’m watching myself grab her face.  This can’t be me, I’ve never raised a hand to her in anger.  Get out, I watch myself say.  She slaps at my arms.  She’s always been tough, strong, and I’m not surprised that her hits sting my arm.  When the harmless slaps turn into punches, I let go of her face and with one arm I grab both of her wrists and push her back against the fridge.

     And I kiss her.

Sabrina

     I hear myself saying “you never really did it for me,” and I know it’s not true.  I know I’m pushing the wrong buttons and pushing them too hard, but so what?  What’s he going to do?  Even as he grabs my jaw in his strong right hand, I know my man.  I know he’d never hurt me.  But the pressure he’s putting on my face is starting to get uncomfortable.  He gets in my face and tells me to get out.  And I realize that maybe I don’t know my man so well.

     My heart’s pounding from fear or anger, I can’t tell which.  He’s telling me to get out of my house and he knows I don’t have anywhere to go.  And before that part of my brain that would say “No, don’t, this isn’t a good idea” gets a chance to speak, I start to hit him.  “Let me go,” I say.  I don’t think he’s hearing me.  I go from open hand slaps to punches, hard, to his arm.  He grabs my wrists in his hands and puts them up above my head, then pins me against the fridge.  He grabs my jaw again, and I don’t know when the last time I’ve ever been this scared.

     He kisses me, hard, passionately.  Everything stops.  My eyes drift closed and I feel him pressing his lips against me, the day-old stubble of his chin razing my face.  It’s rough and prickly and tickles.  I feel his tongue forcing its way past my lips and I let it in after putting up a cursory resistance.  I take a deep breath for the first time.  I hate him.  God this feels good.

     I bite his lip, not hard, not softly, and his hands loosen from my wrists.  I grab his face and push away, taking a breath to try and get the flush out of my face.  I slap him across the jaw as hard as I can and kiss him again.  I tear at his shirt and buttons pop and I’m raking his chest with my fingernails.  He moves his prickly face to my neck and bites down.  It hurts, but there’s no pain in my voice.  I throw my arms around his neck and dig my nails into his back.

     It feels so good.  I hate the cheating bastard.

Alex

     A grunt escapes my throat as she scratches my back.  The sting from air and sweat means she’s probably broken skin, but right now I can’t say I care.  Her skin warms in my hands, in my mouth.  She tastes great.  I throw off her bathrobe and rip off her tank top, and she moans at the sound of the cotton ripping.  I lift her off the ground and her breasts to my face.  She squirms in my arms and her feet flail in the air, and she lets out noises I haven’t heard before.  Holy crap, this is incredible.  Is this what she was like last night?

     I bite at one of her nipples and she pulls my head in closer.  She’s trembling.  She slips through my hands to the ground and works her hands on my belt and pants.  I slide her pajama bottoms to the ground, and she quickly shimmies them off her ankles.  Then my pants are around my ankles.  I kiss her again, hard and deep and pin her wrists behind her.  She wraps those strong dancer legs around my waist and I’m greeted by warm and wet.  I’m watching myself pin her against the wall and drive into her.  I want to give myself a thumbs up.

     We’re both making animal noises as we make love.  No, come to think of it, this isn’t making love, not at all.  I’m angry, and I can tell she is too.  We’re hitting the wall so hard that our cabinets are shaking.  A ceramic plate falls out and smashes against the floor.  There is very little love in this.

     She starts to squeeze me and I withdraw.  I don’t want this to end just yet.  I put her down and bend her over the breakfast bar and slide into her as she’s still trembling.  One hand’s on her back and I have her thick dark curls wrapped around my wrist.  I grab her hip and drive into her, hard. Fast.  Repeatedly.  She squeals, part pain, part pleasure, but I’m not going to stop.

Sabrina

     One minute we’re fighting, the next minute we’re screwing on the breakfast bar.  When I look at this in my mind later, I’m sure I’m going to laugh at how crazy this is.

     We’re going at it pretty hard.  There’s a broken plate at the cabinet and I think I knocked over a glass from the breakfast bar.  I’m holding on for dear life as he’s ramming me from behind and there’s a part of me that can’t help but think if this is what he did with her, whoever she is.  Did she get it this good?  Was he this savage with her?  And I’m surprised at myself to realize that the thought is what’s driving this.

     Did he bend her over something in her kitchen? Oh, God!

     Was he pounding her this hard?  Shit, yes!

     Did he slap her ass the way he’s slapping mine?  Fuck me!

     I don’t know if I’m thinking it or screaming it, but he’s going at it so hard it almost hurts.  So, so good.

     My knees are buckling again and I know I’m about to cum.  He brought me so, so close last time and stopped, the asshole, just to do this again.  I want this, need this, can’t let him know.  Hold my breath.  Don’t clench.  Feel my face going warm.  Oh, shit.  Gotta hold it.  Gotta hold it.  For the love of God, please don’t stop.  Oh, God!

     He pulls out and I let out that breath- Fuck yes- and my knees feel like jelly. I feel a warm trickle down my leg.  Oh, god, am I peeing?  How can I be peeing?  Wait, wait a minute.  This isn’t pee.  I’m not peeing.  That’s new.

Alex

     There’s a small puddle forming at my feet and I’m suddenly not so focused on the anger anymore.  Wow.  That’s definitely a new trick.  I take a breath and pat myself on the back in my head.

     Did she do that last night?  Did she do that for him?

     I see red and drive into her again.  I grab her by her hips and pull her into me.  She’s not even putting up any resistance, even throwing her hips back at me.  She’s moaning like a little whore, not even forming words.  Her knees buckle and her body trembles in my hands.  I can’t hide my smile as I grab a handful of her hair, and her breath catches in her throat.  The one word she says comes out as a long and raspy whisper: “Yes!”.  I haven’t seen her dick-drunk in years.

     She clenches up again, right at my moment of weakness.  Fuck, I’m gonna blow.  My entire body seizes and I let loose inside her.  My limbs go heavy and I feel my eyes roll back.  The kitchen is getting hazy, and where a second ago I was gripping her to pound her harder, I’m holding on now to keep from falling over.  My legs wobble and fail, partly because of the vigorous workout and partly because I let off twice in the last eight hours and I’m just not used to all this sex.  I pull out and she drips and oozes on the floor.

I’ll probably have to clean that up.

     We both take a few silent, heaving breaths.  We’re drenched in sweat.  I can’t muster up the same kind of rage I just had not too long ago.  Too tired.  Too relaxed.  I know, I hope, whoever that guy was he didn’t get this out of her.  This was for me.  This was mine.

After a moment, she stands upright and strides over to the pile of her clothes near the fridge.  I haven’t seen her naked like this in so long, I forgot how stunning she is.  Tall, long, lean, muscled legs, toned stomach, perky breasts, naturally tanned skin with freckles at her chest and cheeks.  She bends to pick up her bathrobe and shorts and I take notice of that ass of hers.  My red handprint is still visible.

“I’m taking a shower,” she announces.  “I’m sweaty.”  She walks away, out of the kitchen and upstairs toward the bathroom.

And then I hear her call out, “You coming?”

30 Day Writing Challenge: Day 2 -- Your Earliest

Last month I did a 30-day writing challenge.  I posted about it in my last post.  Writing prompts were given and it made me think of writing in ways I hadn't before.  Some of it was good, some of it not.  Some of it was deeply personal.  I'm going to share some of my favorites.

#2: My Earliest Memory

My earliest memory comes from July of 1983.  I was four and change.  I sat in the bedroom that was partitioned off for my brothers.  We lived in a pre-war apartment building in Brooklyn, so we had the space to cram four boys into half a bedroom.

I was watching WPIX 11, New York's local independent station at the time, and home of the New York Yankees.  Stuff happened that I didn't understand until much later in life.  The game was honestly boring to me.  Then this happened:

 

 

 

 

 

It was weird, like a light went on in my still forming head.  This game was cool. Anything that could make grownups act like this was beyond cool.  And that day, I became a Yankee fan.

 

 

The 30-Day Writing Challenge

I seemed to have fallen asleep in February and awakened in April.

And that's inexcusable.  I shouldn't disappear off my platform for a month without saying something.  Even if this is a platform of one.

As penance, I will be doing a 30-day writing challenge on this blog.



I found this challenge on Facebook one day during my month-long hibernation, and I have to say it's pretty interesting.  It's the first time I've done anything like this, and the prompts will force me to look a things from a different angle.  Beginning tomorrow, April 2, I'll start from the top and work my way down.  Maybe I'll even finish it.

Of course, as always I invite your commentary as I go along.

***

While I'm here, I figure I'll give you an update: my first pass is at the tail end now, the last five or six chapters and epilogue are the only barriers to starting my rewrite.  I'm also almost done with the plotting of my next project, Urban Legend.

Review: Adultery by Paulo Coelho

Meh.

Paulo Coelho comes to me well-recommended.  I'm told The Alchemist is a life-changing book and Aleph is captivating.  Maybe I should have started with one of those.

I can't say I loved Adultery.  It wasn't terrible, and this is a virtue of Paulo Coelho being everything as a writer I was told he would be.  His style is accessible and conversational.  You can blow through large chunks of text while sipping a coffee or a beer and you're never left grasping at what happened.  However this story, while well told, wasn't terribly compelling.

Adultery is the running inner monologue of a woman in her 30's who has everything she can ask for -- perfect children, a husband who adores her, a fulfilling career, the ability to flit about the world at a whim -- and yet is terribly unhappy, largely because she chooses to be.  She inexplicably one day blows a politician (who happens to be the ex-boyfriend from high school that she was so into that she fantasized about him constantly through her adolescence), and that kick-starts a vicious cycle self-hatred and bad decision-making, all while her doting husband tries desperately to help her find her way of whatever depression and melancholy she happens to be in.

I find characters who do the  super-entitled pity party ("woe is me, I have everything) to be grating, especially when they narrate the story, as in Adultery and  Douglas Brunt's Ghosts of Manhattan. It's hard to empathize with them as a reader because for me at least, it's impossible to understand them, especially when at the end, they haven't changed very much because their lives are so insular, so perfect, they're not required to.  Adultery's narrator, Linda, almost ruins two marriages -- her own and her lover's -- and never has to face the consequences. She's spared the humbling embarrassment of having to say she cheated, while putting her lover in a position to lie to his wife's face.  At the end of the day, her relationship with her husband somehow ends up stronger because she realizes that she has it all and decides it's not a prison.  I mean... come on.  Reading this calls up some advice my dad once gave me: the worst thing you can give a woman is everything she wants.

I will say this: Paulo Coelho's style is everything it's cracked up to be.

Pros: Easy Read, crackling style
Cons: Whiny narrator, no significant character change at the end.

2 out of 5 stars.

It's The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year...

That's right, pitchers and catchers have reported to Spring Training!  That means Opening Day is around the corner, and summer very shortly after.  Aren't you excited?



I make no secret about my Yankee fandom.  I like to think it's one of my most endearing qualities.  But this isn't a post about being a Yankee fan.  Spring Training also means that softball season is about to start out here, but this isn't a post about that either.

No, this is a post about connection.

Every year, millions of fans of the 30 MLB teams prepare themselves for a summer of various levels of commitment to the idea that their team can win a title.  Some fans will watch every game, most won't.  Some fans will attend every home game, most won't.  But on some level, everyone will have at least some interest in their hometown team.  On some level people care.  And on some level, people hope for the kind of unity victory brings.

I know this is true of all sports, but for some reason, it feels more true about baseball.  And I think I know why.

Football, the players wear masks.  Their careers tend to be short.  And in most of those careers, teams that don't win out don't stay together very long.  Basketball, the average length of time one player stays with one team is about five years.  Baseball, however, teams are kept together for years, decades in some cases, and even the teams that don't stay completely together, there's never a wholesale turnover.  There's continuity.  And while the Yankees win most of the time, most teams spend at least some time being competitive.  And you can always trace a link from one team's great player to its next through less than three degrees of separation.  And it's something you can link directly back to your childhood.  It's something I appreciate more now as I'm now so much closer to 40 than I am to 20.

For instance, one of my favorite players retired a couple of years ago, Derek Jeter.  He came up to the majors in 1996, when I was turning 18 and going to college and drooling over college girls.  1996 was also the first Yankee championship of my lifetime.  The year before Jeter came up, Don Mattingly -- longtime Yankee first baseman and the player I grew up idolizing -- played his final season in a career that started when I was three.  He played most of his career on a team that had all-time base stealing champion Rickey Henderson and fellow Hall-of-Famer Dave Winfield.  Winfield was brought to the Yankees in 1981 to anchor an outfield that featured Reggie Jackson, who was a member of the 1978 World Series Championship team that won when I was about two weeks old.  And right there, I've just charted my entire life through one team.  That is not a terribly rare occurrence.

It's a shame that the appreciation for baseball seems to be declining because that connection is declining.  Connection with a home, with a city, with something that's not only bigger than you, but something that you can agree upon with your neighbor at a ballpark regardless of your station in life, your religious beliefs or even your attitudes about race.  Two guys at Yankee Stadium wearing Yankee jerseys are both Yankee fans, and together for the three hours at the ballpark.  They share a drink, they share triumph and defeat, they share opinions on which players suck.  At the end it's over, and they go back to their respective lives, homes and differences of various levels, but in those few hours they were family of a sort.

They say baseball is something that's inherited, that fathers pass on to sons (or mothers to sons, or fathers to daughters, mothers to daughters, whatever).  If I ever have kids and I can pass on an appreciation for baseball and all the commonalities fans have with one another, all the things we share at the ballpark, and how we directly connect one player to the next, and one moment to the next, I will have honestly done my part to make the world a better place.

Unless the little crumb snatcher turns out to be a Red Sox fan.