sketch of novel cover

The science of hate

From the perspective of science, the strength of a species lies in its diversity.  Fact.  Therefore, a person who hates another because they are physically different (ie. skin color), is essentially hating their own species, and by momentum of logic, just hating themselves.

...you might be a writer

To be read like Jeff Foxworthy’s – “You Might be a Redneck”

If Wikipedia is higher on your favorites list than your favorite adult website…you might be a writer

If you stare at clouds in search of inspiration far too long…you might be a writer

If you select your doctors because they have Writer’s Digest in the magazine rack…you might be a writer

If you read your Facebook page merely to study human behavior…you might be a writer

If you catch your girlfriend having sex with Cormac McCarthy and all you can think is when’s he gonna finish so I can get his autograph…you might be a writer

If you are sometimes hesitant to even refer to yourself as a writer…you might be a writer

If you have a stack of old scribble filled notebooks taller than the health care bill…you might be a writer

If you ride the bus or subway just so you can study weird characters…you might be a writer

If you almost always know the ending of a movie midway through…you might be a writer

If you think Scrabble should be an Olympic event...you might be a writer

If you have an old thesaurus that looks like it’s been through a John Deere threshing machine…you might be a writer

If you start to get genuine withdrawal DT’s when your laptop is in the shop for more than a day…you might be a writer

If you’d do more to learn a neat new word than you would for a Klondike bar…you might be a writer

If the word rewrite brings you a tinge of panic…you might be a writer

If you’d rather be writing even more than you’d rather be fishing right now…you might be a writer

If you’ve ever searched through the phone book to find the perfect name for a fictional character…you might be a writer

If you’ve put off sex because you needed to finish reading one more chapter of that new novel you just bought…you might be a writer

If you sometimes dream in words instead of pictures...you might be a writer

If you can wallpaper a small cathedral with rejection letters from agents and publishers…you might be a writer

If you’ve ever stalked a literary agent…you might be a writer

If you’ve ever spent an entire vacation in Wi-Fi café…you might be a writer

If a beautiful woman with a short skirt struts by and all you can think about is how you can cleverly describe her legs in poetry or prose…you might be a writer

If you’ve considered divorce when your spouse throws out your copy of Writer’s Digest before you finished reading it…you might be a writer

If you’ve ever scribbled a great idea for a plot down on the dashboard of your car while driving on the freeway…you might be a writer

If you consider Starbuck’s coffee to be one of the four main food groups…you might be a writer

If you’d rather be in Barnes and Noble than in Vegas…you might be a writer

If you are genuinely perplexed why network television has yet to come out with a show called American Writer Idol…you might be a writer

If you’ve just stayed at a Holiday Inn Express…you might be a writer

If you’ve ever asked a cop to toss you in jail for a few days because you want that prison scene in your new novel to be perfectly genuine...you might be a writer (but if you’re in jail for incest, poaching or stealing a pack of Chicklets to fill in your missing teeth before that date with your cousin…you might be a red-neck)

If you are on the NSA’s watch list due to all the unusual Google searches you’ve done…you might be a writeer

If you are over thirty and you still live in your parent’s basement…you might be a writer

If you feel that Hallmark should make a sympathy card to send to friends suffering from writers block…you might be a writer

If you take vacations to areas you think would be a great setting for a future novel…you might be a writer

If you’ve ever referred to a west coast sunset as a red-hot ingot meting thru an infinite blue block of Pacific paraffin…you might be a writer

If you can think of at least three more of these without even thinking…you might be a writer

If your written words have ever brought someone joy, tears, rage, or a smile…you might be a writer

If you’ve ever dreamed that you could change the world...you might be a writeer

If you wasted your time reading this entire thread…you might be a writer; or you might just be insane! (which in and of itself would mean…you might be a writer!)

ouch?

The other day I bruised my elbow when I tripped on a tree that had fallen in the woods.  It really hurt, but nobody was around so I wasn't sure if I should yell "ouch!"

New open to Novel

                            Chapter 1



Taking time to gaze upon rainbows or sunsets or the likes was never very high on Jesse’s priority list. Today, however, was a different story. Any minute the sun would peek above the dark eastern horizon, and he could be no more eager – for it had been months since he’d seen the sun, let alone bask in the splendor of a sunrise. Absence truly does make the heart grow fonder, he mused.

From several miles out on the Pacific Ocean, and standing on a catwalk suspended seventy-five feet above sea-level, the view would be spectacular. He visualized the image; the sun edging above the earth’s crust to beam pioneering rays across miles of ocean. The very thought brought him calm. As beautiful as he knew it would be, the pageantry took a back seat to the pleasure of warmth against his dark skin. Jesse shivered in the cool twilight, felt his anticipation rise…it wouldn’t be long now.

But he had work to do first. Several gears still needed to be lubricated and a few more solar panels needed to be polished. Five minutes, he figured, if he hustled. With birds no longer busying the skies at least he wouldn’t be slowed by having to scrape poo.

Turning back to continue his work, he slid on a gob of spilled lubricant. He flailed and grabbed a support stanchion to brace himself, but not before slamming his shin against the railing. He yelped and cursed, directing the invective at the railing for being so darn hard, and the algae based lube for being so darn slick. As much as it hurt, the railing prevented him from falling off the narrow catwalk and into the ocean below, or even worse, slamming into one of the slowly rotating wind turbines on the way down. He sighed, reached down and rubbed his shin.

The fall ripped his wet suit and gashed his skin. He inspected the wound. As he did he took note of the yellow shark POD strapped to his ankle just beneath the injury. The shark POD was designed to help prevent shark attack by emitting a low level electrical halo around the diver. He’d need it in short order for the dive back down to his home. Fortunately the shark POD was undamaged. The irony of blood right next to a device intended to repel sharks did not escape him.

Jesse tied a rag around his calf to stop the bleeding, grabbed the grease gun and picked up where he left off. As he worked, he reflected back to the most recent shark attack. It had taken place about a month ago, the details still fresh in his mind. There had been a handful of other attacks over the years, but only one other had been fatal – as this one had. This most recent incident had sent shockwaves through the community; the unease less a product of the carnage, than the discovery of the cause.

Parts of Ben Grimsley turned up in the waters around Pacifica soon after he’d gone missing. Along with his rebreather SCUBA gear, his head, right hand, and left leg had been discovered adrift in the kelp fields. Although discolored and festooned with little noshing critters, the remains had been intact, the shark POD still strapped around his leg.

The unit still worked, but curiously, had been switched off. Turning the unit off was a two step process, so it wasn’t likely that it had occurred as a result of the attack. Equally as peculiar, Grimsley had been out in the water during a fishing campaign, a time when the water was filled with bait, a time when everyone knew better than to be outside. The physical evidence, along with Grimsley’s well documented battle with depression had left little doubt as to motive. The diver had encouraged the attack, the injuries self inflicted.

It was suicide by shark.

The incident had affected Jesse deeply. Although not close friends, Jesse knew Ben. Living in such a small isolated community for such a long spell, he knew everybody, at least to some degree. But it was more than the fact that a man he knew had been killed in such a grisly fashion that had Jesse so troubled. It was because the depression Ben Grimsley fought was of the same origin as his – acute cabin fever.

Jesse took a deep breath, tasted salt and autumn in the fresh morning air. Postcard blue began diffusing through a bipolar sky. He moved to the next panel and picked up the pace, the time allotted him to sit in the sun was limited. The strict schedule had nothing to do with time-cards or clocks, but was in heed to a calling far more fundamental.

With daylight came danger.

“Yo Jess,” a voice suddenly came, wrestling him from his reverie. Jesse turned. It was Alberto Cruz, a friend and fellow worker assigned to the detail. Along with two other workers, Cruz was positioned on a parallel catwalk some thirty yard away. Throughout the wee hours Jesse had intentionally strayed to the outside edge of the massive alternative energy platform, distancing himself from the other workers. He wanted no distraction during his moment in the sun.

“What?” Jesse replied, shouting above the whirr of a hundred huge wind turbines.

“You playin’ hoop tonight?” Cruz shouted.

“I’ll be there.” Jesse nodded and flashed a thumbs up. He wasn’t sure if he’d be there, or not. Quite frankly, it was about the last thing on his mind. But he knew if he said no, or even maybe, Cruz would then inquire why, and then do everything in his power to change his mind. He might even decide to mosey over to do so. A great guy in general, Cruz was just wired a little tight, a five-foot six inch Latin tinderbox with raging A-D-D. And Jesse simply wasn’t of the mind to deal with that kind of energy, at least not at the moment. Because as he looked upon the last solar panel he just finished polishing, he saw the first cilia of sunlight stretch skyward in the reflection.

His assignment complete, Jesse shed his work shirt. He wanted nothing to come between him and virgin sunlight. Along with the shirt, he stowed his gear in the nearest watertight locker. He then paced to the edge of the ALEN platform, sat down and waited for the sun to rise fully. An unusually dark rain cloud came into view above the coastline a few degrees to the south, the only blight to an otherwise pristine sky. Fortunately it would not interfere with his view.

Like a striptease, the sun slowly disrobed from twilight. Ahhh…how magnificent. The arriving warmth was every bit as beautiful as the view. He felt his soul begin to thaw and his muscles melt like polar ice on a fevered planet. But despite the swell of harmony, it was difficult to silence his mind. He couldn’t help but dwell upon his ongoing dilemma. He just wasn’t sure he could live on under these conditions any longer. He sighed and closed his eyes, tried to back burner his thoughts.

Just as he started to drift off, he was startled by a sharp whistle.

“Yo Jess,” Cruz shouted, followed by another whistle.

Jesse stirred and slowly turned. Cruz and the others were heading down an open stairway, back to the ocean. It was time to leave. “On my way,” Jesse shouted and waved. Knowing it’d likely be a while till he got topside again, he took one last look at the sunrise. Wisps of sunlight now shimmered atop the vast Pacific Ocean. The distant horizon bisected the panorama, the California coastline like a thin magic marker separating earth and sky. Jesse found the view achingly exquisite, and only served to underscore his torment.

Jesse stood and checked his dive gear. Most of his equipment – tanks, mask, regulator, and fins – were still down below on the wet deck. Before moving off he reached down and removed the rag from his calf. The wound had stopped bleeding at least. He looked down at the shark POD. For an instant the notion of turning the unit off during the dive to Pacifica flashed through his mind, but he dismissed it. Sucking it up and continuing on another day had to be better than the alternative. Jesse Baines then thought of Ben Grimsley, and wondered.

Sorry for the recent blog diet

Stay tuned...new vittles coming soon!

Last night I had a dream that I was tired.