Whatever comes to mind...

I'm doing an incredible amount of research for my latest book and it is paying off.

Trying to peel the onion to reveal more about my story, I've found out my first theories are credible and only make my book stronger. I'll relate.

The opening of the book starts with the assassination of the Catholic pope. The assassin then blows up a hotel as a diversion and disappears. Because there are U.S. casualties, the CIA, FBI and Dept. of Homeland Security are called into investigate. Who killed the Pope and why?

Here is where my research has paid off. I found out today that the al-Quaida sponsored terrorist organization Jemaah Islamiyah has been training a 100-man assassination squad on the island of Mindanao on Mt. Cararao. They have a hit list that includes government officials, judges and Catholic priests. Mt. Cararao is also home for the Philippines terrorist organization Abu Sayyaf. So, if they have an assassination squad what prevents them from going after more high-profile targets?

That's where my book comes in. And I'm geeked. I had been writing for weeks based on this same type of theory. Now I have something that strengthens it.

I've been writing the past week. And I'm having a helluva fun time doing it. I've been working on some action scenes with thrills and chills and all that kind of stuff. The book is going extremely well, I think. It is like a puzzle I have to solve, a choose your own adventure that I have complete control over.

Which makes me wonder, why did it take so long to figure out that writing a thriller is probably what I would enjoy writing most?

The signs were there. I've always enjoyed reading thrillers. Tom Clancy when I was young, some of the Stephen King books that get really hairy. Michael Crichton as I got older. The latest author I've picked up and enjoy is Daniel Silva. The stuff I've always enjoyed is when an author takes you to the edge of your seat. Heck, now that I think about it, one of the books I enjoyed by Ernest Hemingway most is To Have and Have Not. Critics pan it, but I like the action that takes place.

Looking at my own writing, even in my "literary" stage, I still wrote stuff with action. A boxing story, hunting stories...

And a few weeks ago, I didn't know what I wanted to write. It's been in front of me for awhile. I just never saw it.

Well, I'm chugging along on a new project.

Not going that fast on it, but that's okay. There's a lot of research and I'm doing the research as I go along. On top of it, I'm having a lot of damn fun doing it. The opening scene is in Buenos Aires and the chapter ends with a bang. Literally. I'm not even sure where this is going yet, but it's fun going with the flow.

I know more about my book than I even know. While in FM chat this morning, I was barraged with questions about the book. I answered them succintly and was quite surprised with a lot of the background I already pieced in my mind.

I'm weaving together several different things of interest I have for this book: interest in World History, news and creepy world powers interested in controlling what goes on in the world.

I'm sitting around being worried about things I have no control over.

It's just that simple. I need to write and that's it. If I want to write horror, write it, if I want to write a thriller, write it. It's not like I'm a published writer trying to make sure he doesn't alienate his market. I have no market.

Life is too short. We have one life to live. So, why am I worried about trying to write something everlasting?

I need to think of today.

I'm wondering if any of my friends on here have time to read a book I completed last year. I'm going over it again and doing some more edits on it, what I need is just for someone to read it, and tell me what you think. Is it good or bad. Is it good, but here's some holes in the story or is it bad and there's a lot of holes in the story.

I'm not needing this next week or even the week after next. It could be good to have it within three weeks.

Here's the reason I'm asking for this. I finished this book last year, sent out about 10 query letters and dropped it for something else. A new book that never materialized. After thinking, I'm starting to wonder that maybe my problem is not coming up with book ideas. My problem is quitting. Miss Snark once said don't give up until you sent out a hundred query letters. I got to about 10 percent of that.

My new plan is to write a new query letter, take some time on it and then send it to the same people I did last year, along with some new ones. I've been rereading this piece and I think it's a good story. Needs some polishing, yes, but still a good story.

So, I want to know what others think.

I sat around thinking this morning.

That's scary. And here's what I came up with. It's a little sarcastic humor.

Maybe we're looking at global warming the wrong way. Everyone wants to tell us what we can do to help decrease carbon emmissions in our households, industry and transportation. So, here's my thought. Where the guy with the ingenuity who is thinking up a way to fire a chemical in the air that would decrease the carbon?

I mean, after all, that's what the U.S. does best isn't it? We come up with easy ways to keep our rich, suburban lifestyles intact. So, where's the guy with the big carbon-fighting aerosol can that we can fire up in the air and decrease the CO2?

Interesting concept, I think. And since this is a global fight we face, I don't think it would take much to convince other countries to sign on, right? We could stick a global warming fighting cannon on top of Mount Everest, one on Mount Kilimijaro, maybe another one on top of the Eiger. Once a year, we fire up the cannons and spray the Earth's atmosphere and Wallah! we can go back to driving the SUV's in utter happiness.

Maybe even build bigger SUV's since we would have the magical carbon-destroying fairy dust.

Thought I'd throw up another poem I wrote years back.

Oceans

Pops rolled out of here about a week ago,
and I found myself missing him
like some kind of gay superman.
Not that I'm gay or superman,
but it must be nice to roll down the hills
driving a brand new Lincoln,
white with custom leather seats
and a stereo that didn't work.
He drove to see the ocean,
and I was left in my oceans.

Maybe he'll do it again
and this time I'll go.
We'll head out of Knoxville,
I-40 East, windows rolled down,
cruising like pimps.
We'll cross the mountain,
hit Asheville, N.C. and the local
Dairy Queen drive-in
and order chocolate shakes.
Somehow my shake won't be cold
and I'll have to slurp it down like
a glass of chocolate milk.

Maybe I'll raise hell,
and he'll raise hell,
and we'll raise hell together,
Because the times they aren't changing,
We are.
Halfway there I'll see a blonde North Carolina girl
and I'll aspire to get her in my bed.
Pops will aspire to get her into his heart.
The times aren't changing.
We are.
And when we get to the ocean
I'll know it's not the end of the rail for this
locomotive line we call friendship.

We'll walk out on a pier
And see the ocean.
Maybe it's blue,
Maybe it's a gray,
Maybe it's pitch fucking black,
I don't know.

He'll sit down.
I'll sit down beside him.
A whistle will cry
then I'll sit and wonder if it's a freighter,
but imagine it as more.
What I don't know.
That's for me to find out.
And when I do Pops will be romantic.
I will be realistic.
Together we will be drawn into
a hip carma that only friends can share.
It's like a sutra of the sunbowl.
A goddess of our whims.
Maybe Pops doesn't understand me,
and I don't understand him.
But at least we have a whole ocean to piss in.

A few weeks ago, I had a conversation with a friend at work who writes fiction on the side. During the conversation, she said, "I'd rather write something lasting than popular."

I took it to heart for a few days and thought, 'Yeah, that's the ticket.' But now I'm backtracking. The question I find myself posing is, 'what is lasting?'

Is Beloved by Toni Morrison lasting? Underworld by Don Delileo? According to the critics, they are. Those are considered to be some of the best works in literature in the last 30 years. But I've never read them. Don't even want to really. I picked up Underworld a few weeks ago and tried reading it because it had been hailed as the masterpiece of the last 50 years. It was written well. No doubt about it. It was interesting. But it was boring and I put it down.

How many people know Don Delileo except the high brow circles?

But if you are going to talk about lasting, is Riders of the Purple Sage lasting? The Maltese Falcon? The Day of the Jackal? These are all books written in the popular genre, but I would bet my bottom dollar they are just as lasting and well known, if not even more well known than the two previous literary fiction books I just mentioned. One hundred years from now, I'd like to know if more people know about Patriot Games by Tom Clancy, The Stand by Stephen King or A Time to Kill by John Grisham than they do about Beloved, Underworld or Gravity's Rainbow by Thomas Pynchon.

I'm starting to wonder if the days of literary fiction are gone. Maybe the real literary fiction lies in the popular fiction the critics want to rail about. There is insight to be found in an Elmore Leonard novel, in a Micheal Connelly book and a John Grisham thriller. They are written just as well as the so called "masters" with terse prose and storylines that take readers on adventures. Say what you want, their is social commentary as well. Grisham examined race in A Time to Kill. Dan Brown examines religion in his books. Michael Crichton examines and has examined a variety of disasters we should be prepared for, long before Hurricane Katrina.

Maybe the writers have it right. It certainly doesn't seem like the so-called "critics" do.

I'm having a good day. The sun is shining and its a perfect 70 degrees here in East Tennessee. It puts a smile on my face and makes the mood a little lighter.

It's amazing how nature and the environment can make you happy and sad. Just this morning, speaking to some friends in the FM chat room there was mention about gloomy, grey winters. I like cold weather, but I admit there's nothing like Springtime or Fall either. I've been getting out on the porch the last few weekends and firing up the grill. We've taken walks along the river and felt a nice breeze hit us as we strolled.

There's so much in this life we should be thankful about. Even the small things. Take advanatage of it while you can. I found out years ago that even the smallest things sometimes become the most precious of moments.

I had a good weekend. I'm getting some ideas for some scenes in my head and I went to the book store the other day and just started browsing for books that interested me and came up with what I thought was a pretty good collection.

I'm not big on excuses, but maybe having a baby and the whole change of life thing made me go bonkers for a bit on the book side of things. I'm starting to relatively calm down more now and getting back some focus.

I've come up with a conclusion. Whatever I do, it needs to be fun. I had fun writing my last book. Now I'm pressuring myself so much, I'm not having any fun. Whatever I write, I want it to be adventurous and escapist.

Okay, I'm actually not going mobile, but I've got that Who song stuck in my head.

It kind of serves as a bit of an analogy for what I'm writing about anyway, in a sort of in my head sort of way.

I feel like I'm getting closer to thinking of a project. This weekend I'm going to sit down and just start brainstorming on pen and paper and throw out some ideas, see where they land. Actually, I'll probably lie on my bed as I do that. I think more clearly that way sometimes.

Should be a fairly good weekend. Friends are coming in to see the new baby. She's doing well. Fussy, like a baby will be, but very loved.

AND FOR THE RECORD: I know the band is "The Who" not "Who," but it sounds really dorky saying, "that The Who song in my head."

I think I'm almost ready to start writing fiction again.

I've got some ideas in my head, and I think the best thing is to just start jotting them down over the next few days and do a little brainstorming in my head and on paper and start coming up with a plan of action.

The best thing after that is just write.

I've sat around a few days and thought of things that interest me. I'm thinking if I can just list the things that really get my geek, so to speak, then maybe that will help me focus on what kind of book my next project will be.

I've came up with this list:

Politics
World History/Cultures
Global warming
Unexplained/mysterious science
Conspiracy theories

There are the things I like to read about. I think there is a book in this list somewhere. I've just got to start looking more into it and find it.

Just thought I'd get angry for a sec.

I'm listening to Pearl Jam, thinking back on my grunge days when I was an angry youth. Now I'm going to sound like an old fart.

Here's my question. Where the f&*$ is the anger these days? Back a few years ago, I had a friend of mine from the 60's railing into me about how when he was young it was the days of war protests and anger toward the government. It was right after the invasion of Iraq and he wanted to know where those protests were that day. "Take to the streets," he said. "The youth of this country need some guts."

I just laughed and told him to hold out, if things get bad, they'll come out. It's too soon, I said.

That was five years ago. Guess what? Things aren't great, but those angry youth I thought would come out aren't there. So where is the anger? Fifteen years ago, I was being told I had nothing to be angry about and neither did the rest of my generation. Everything is handed to you, we were told. You've got all you want.

Yeah, maybe you're right, I thought. But I was still angry.

Then I got older. Got married. Had a child. Thought the anger was out of me. Until now. It's still raging a bit inside. And it's getting more intense as I hear more and more body bags coming home.

Maybe it's time for just a little bit of anger these days.

After a storm of mental activity last week on trying to figure out what to do with my writing life last week, I've came to a conclusion.

I'll just chill.

I've been writing letters to my daughter and I want to continue that. But I just need to sit back and relax for a little bit and figure out what I want to write and let it come to me instead of forcing the issue. There's a lot of other things in life more important than just trying to figure out what book you want to write. I'm thankful for the fact that I can choose such a thing anyway. There's a lot of other people in this world who don't have such choices. Me, I get to drive my sport utility vehicle to work everyday, come home to my two-story house with my wife and child. The biggest fret I have is trying to figure out what I want to pick up at the store on my way home from work. Yes, I don't want to make any thing trivial or any person's own torments trivial. As human beings we all have our own troubles and they become intensified in our minds. But sometimes what we don't have, or even think about, is perspective. How does this play out in the grand scheme of things?

Wonder what the average Joe living in Baghdad would think of me struggling to come up with a book idea? Or maybe the farmer in Darfur?

And I don't think the coffee farmer in Brazil is worried too much about digital cable right now.

I like writing things with action, suspense. I like reading the same things. At some point in the next few weeks I'll just have to sit down and write. That's what I think I do best. So why not do it, instead of thinking about it?

I came up with a new idea for a book last night while sitting in bed, staring up at the ceiling. My interests in the past few months have been related more toward nonfiction than fiction. As I lied there, it suddenly occurred to me that if I wanted to write passionately about something maybe the way to go is nonfiction at this point.

So, I'm thinking about throwing together a nonfiction book proposal. I think I would have a chance at selling the idea because it throws my experiences as a newspaper reporter with my own experience of living in the world I live in with my passion for the outdoors.

I'm looking at writing a book about global warming I'm tentatively calling "Black and Green." I want to get to the real people and tell their stories. The corn farmer in Tennessee, the citrus farmer in Florida, the rancher in Texas, the maple tree farmer in Vermont. With enough resources, maybe I could branch out worldwide, talk to the farmer in Australia and Brazil.

I'm ironing it out. But it seems up my alley.

Just as I'm sitting here moaning about my lack of not knowing what to write with my whoa is me story, I find something to put things in perspective. A friend, Mags, is 19 and caring for siblings. Her mother passed away, father gone.

I have a wife, a newborn, a job I love, and a town I live in that I'm growing to love. We just bought a house, everything is going great for me. And I'm lamenting the fact that I can't figure out a fiction book to write.

I already write for a living. There is not much more I can ask for.

Thank you, Mags for putting things back in perspective for me.

I've had some problems over the last few months. I don't know what to write or how to write it.

I started a series of letters to my daughter a few weeks ago. It's been fun writing them.

It's the fiction I don't know what to do with. I'm to eclectic for my own good. I read anything, I want to write everything. But I can't.

Several people have told me, well just write what you want to write. In some sense, I do. But after writing it after awhile I get bored with it. Or I bring so much pressure on myself I abandon for fear that it is not good enough.

And their lies my biggest problem. The continuing argument within my mind to write something brilliant and neverending. I blame college. Up until then, I read popular fiction and had no problems with writing what I wanted to write. Then I started hearing about standards for what makes "good" writing and everything turned to crap.

I don't know what to write. I think I'm going to just ponder on this for a little bit.

It's amazing how you view yourself compared to the way you actually look. For a few years, I was on a weight loss program and lost about 40 to 50 pounds. I felt good and the weight slipped off. Then we moved. Then we started looking for a house. Even when I was trying to watch my weight, it wasn't coming off. I got stuck on a plateau. Then my wife got pregnant. Then we moved again into a house. And finally, the baby is here.

And I'm fluctuating between 230 and 240.

I hadn't thought that much about it except the standard, "yeah, need to get back to losing weight," until yesterday. My wife took pictures of me and the baby and I looked at them. I looked fat. Not what my mind thought my body looked like.

The thing that is amazing to me is that I still think of myself as the guy in high school who was about 40 pounds lighter than I am now. But the baby is here. No excuses now. It's time to get back to losing this weight. I'd like to be with my children and my wife for the longest time possible.

Not a heart attack victim at age 50.