Cycling is a tricky thing for me. As much as I like to do it, I always feel like an amateur. And when it comes to talking about it, I never feel as though I really know what I’m talking about. Typical for me, because I’m a guy, I am loath to ask anyone for advice about cycling: how to fix things, where to ride… heck, even “How do I ride this bike, anyway?” You’d never catch me asking that! I might end up looking foolish! (Because that comes pretty easy…)
Case in point, my hands. My darned hands. They always hurt when I ride. I always come home feeling like I’ve been riding ON my hands. What’s the deal, dammit?
Well, I tried reading up on the issue and discovered my seat might have been placed incorrectly. So, I adjusted my seat. I asked someone I know who rides who said it was my handlebars. So, I adjusted them. I heard you need to bend your arms and I did. I heard you should stretch so I have.
But my hands still hurt like a motherfucker!
Here’s the problem: When you ride, your weight gets distributed in a couple of different ways. It goes down into your seat and legs. It also rests forward on your handlebars and your hands. And this is what has caused me so much pain in the last few years. Basically, I’m a fat fuck who puts all his weight on his hands.
And I was pretty much doomed to that, too, because no advice I came across was helping. Then, a few weeks ago, I tried something that I found revolutionary. I tried using my stomach muscles to support some of my weight. IMAGINE! What happened? The weight moved off of my hands and, as an extra bonus, I found myself peddling better as well!
For the 40 seconds or so that this lasted, I was blown away! I had stumbled upon something amazing: posture! No wonder I hadn’t been able to find an answer. Nobody was going to say, “Well, you could try actually using that fat mid-section of yours.” Nobody.
With every ride, I tried it a bit more. The results were astonishing.
Today, I rode 51 miles up to Yorba Linda and down to Huntington Beach. I made it up to Yorba Linda and down to the beach, holding myself with my core muscles the whole way. I found I was using more than just my stomach muscles, but my laterals and my back and more besides. My hands were hanging in there like troopers. Things were great.
It was getting hot, though. Summer really has hit here in Southern California and I was guzzling water. By the way, you might not know this but a full bladder makes it very difficult to use any of your core muscles. Try it sometime. It just makes you want to pee. Dammit.
I headed back up the SART and was nearly at the 405 when two things happened simultaneously. First, my legs gave out due to the heat and bad planning. (I hadn’t brought something to eat.) Worse still, my core muscles sent a message to my arms that said, “You take this load from here. We’re done.” Right then, my core muscles went slack and all of my weight was put back on my hands.
I was about 12 miles from home and in pretty shitty shape.
Oh, I made it. And I’ll keep working those core muscles. It’s a lesson I wish I’d learned earlier and the more I do it the more stamina they’ll have. And I thought I’d toss this tip out there for anyone who is looking for a solution to the hand problem… or just a minute to laugh at a fat guy…
Friday, July 16, 2010
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Self-helping… myself…
Consider it another case of “You just never know”.
About a year ago or so, I submitted my book on success (Climbing Maya) to a certain publisher. Rather than an outright rejection, I received another reply typical in this economy, “Can’t take on any new projects right now. Try me back in a year.” Never one to look a gift horse in any orifice, I tagged it and flagged it for one year later.
That came up a few weeks ago. So, I emailed the publisher again. This time, I received the same “Can’t take any new projects” note, asking me to try again in six months. I also received another email. The publisher doesn’t just publish books but magazines as well and one magazine they publish is a self-help magazine. To my very great surprise, the editor of this self-help magazine saw my submissions and was asking me to submit something for the magazine.
Really? Me? Self-help?
Hi. We haven’t met. My name is Ken.
But hey, I have long since learned never to pass up any opportunity. And, while I won’t reprint what I submitted here, I will let you know if/when it hits the newsstands. No, the whole reason for this blog entry is just your regularly scheduled reminder: Don’t give up.
Believe me, I know the feeling. I’ve been working on my writing for over a quarter of a century now and have seen more dreams pass out of sight than I can mention. But you never know where opportunity will knock… or when for that matter. Heck, I’m no self-help guru but that doesn’t mean I haven’t learned a thing or two about overcoming obstacles. You just never know.
I have recently developed a relationship with an agent back east. While we haven’t met, he’s read a couple of my books and calls himself a fan. Thing is, being a fan ain’t quite enough. But he’s reading another one, looking for a book he thinks he can sell. While it isn’t opportune – heck, why can’t people just love me, anyway? – it is an opportunity.
There. How’s that for self-help? Don’t pass up an opportunity just because it isn’t “opportune”.
I’m going to put that on my Facebook page right now! You just never know when a little luck is going to strike.
About a year ago or so, I submitted my book on success (Climbing Maya) to a certain publisher. Rather than an outright rejection, I received another reply typical in this economy, “Can’t take on any new projects right now. Try me back in a year.” Never one to look a gift horse in any orifice, I tagged it and flagged it for one year later.
That came up a few weeks ago. So, I emailed the publisher again. This time, I received the same “Can’t take any new projects” note, asking me to try again in six months. I also received another email. The publisher doesn’t just publish books but magazines as well and one magazine they publish is a self-help magazine. To my very great surprise, the editor of this self-help magazine saw my submissions and was asking me to submit something for the magazine.
Really? Me? Self-help?
Hi. We haven’t met. My name is Ken.
But hey, I have long since learned never to pass up any opportunity. And, while I won’t reprint what I submitted here, I will let you know if/when it hits the newsstands. No, the whole reason for this blog entry is just your regularly scheduled reminder: Don’t give up.
Believe me, I know the feeling. I’ve been working on my writing for over a quarter of a century now and have seen more dreams pass out of sight than I can mention. But you never know where opportunity will knock… or when for that matter. Heck, I’m no self-help guru but that doesn’t mean I haven’t learned a thing or two about overcoming obstacles. You just never know.
I have recently developed a relationship with an agent back east. While we haven’t met, he’s read a couple of my books and calls himself a fan. Thing is, being a fan ain’t quite enough. But he’s reading another one, looking for a book he thinks he can sell. While it isn’t opportune – heck, why can’t people just love me, anyway? – it is an opportunity.
There. How’s that for self-help? Don’t pass up an opportunity just because it isn’t “opportune”.
I’m going to put that on my Facebook page right now! You just never know when a little luck is going to strike.
Saturday, July 03, 2010
The First Century…
So, here I am, awake at nearly four in the morning on the day after my very first century ride.
Yes, you read that right – probably left to right – I completely my first 100 mile cycling trip. I woke up an hour or so ago in just a whole lot of pain and went to take some more advil. I figure my muscles are in shock right about now, screaming, “What have you done to us?!” Silly muscles…
The ride began at 5:15 yesterday morning. My alarm went off and my first thought was, “What are Vicky and I doing to – oh…” And as reality sank in, I knew the day had arrived. I tried to find a way to get off the hook but Vicky (who seems to like watching me put myself in these awkward positions) kept saying, “No, you can do this.” She has so much faith in me… God, I hate her…
Anyway, I got up – put on my gear – loaded my pack full of food for the trip – filled up my water bottles – checked my tires and chain – and completely forgot to take some advil before I left or take any on the trip. You see, taking some advil before leaving on a long ride helps my body cope with the incredible amounts of pain long rides create and taking a bottle meant I could keep the pain at manageable levels… and I forgot both of those things… stooopid…
My butt began hurting as soon as it landed on the seat as I pulled out of my driveway. I rode up my street to the Santa Ana River Trail (“SART” from here on), which is about when my wrists began hurting. You might not expect the wrist pain but, believe me, it is very much part of the process. I am only beginning to learn how to balance my weight with my core muscles and how to utilize my arm muscles to mediate my weight so it’s not all put on my wrists… but mostly I put most of my weight on my wrists. Yep. We’re talking about nearly 250 pounds… on my wrists… surprised they don’t just snap off like twigs, really…
I hit the SART at about 6am and began the ride by cycling up to Imperial Highway and the Yorba Linda border. This way, I could put over 10 miles of the ride behind me before heading to the shore, thus reducing the ride from 100 miles to 90 miles… which is bullshit because 90 miles is still fucking insane… but I digress…
It really is insane, though…
I hit the end of the SART and Huntington Beach by about 8am. A good start. There wasn’t much traffic, which meant I could cycle as fast as I wanted without having to worry about passing anybody. My speeds in this part of the ride were up around 20 MPH… yeah… I’d soon be missing that…
The beach was pretty vacant at 8am. Lots of joggers, people getting a jump on the day. The speed limit when you’re riding on the beach is 10MPH. I rode on the beach because I wanted to keep my speed down; I had to last for many hours, yet.
When the beach trail ended at Warner Avenue (Sunset Beach), I took my first break. I hadn’t checked my odometer yet and did so at this point. I had ridden 34 miles. The route for the ride not being a perfect loop, I knew I’d have to complete the first 54 before turning around. That meant, I still had 20 miles to go. My first thought was, “Shit…” I would also be leaving the safety of riding on the beach to riding along Pacific Coast Highway (or “PCH”) with all the traffic. My second thought was “Shit…” But my speed on PCH was still good. I was up to about 20 MPH all the way up to Seal Beach… when my chain fell off. Yep… right off my bike. But I’d gone too far to turn back – actually, I hadn’t but the pain had dulled my ability to make excuses, I guess. So, I got the chain back on – then, it popped off again – and I got the chain back on again and, though it stayed on, it made some ugly noises for the rest of the ride.
At the Long Beach border, I turned onto the San Gabriel River Trail (or “SGRT”). This would take me up to 54 miles and the turn-around point. The SGRT is narrow and busy and, worse still, VERY poorly maintained for the first few miles. So, my already battered taint got to feel lots and lots of beating from all the holes and bumps… lots of fun… Why did I do this again? For those of you who get that part but don’t understand why “narrow and busy” is bad, imagine a group of 50 cyclists going 25 MPH passing within two inches of your face…
The furthest ride I’d take previous to this had been to El Dorado Regional Park in Los Alamitos. But that had only been a 70 mile ride. Even with the 10 miles cut out at the beginning, this still sucked…
So, what do you do when you’re a really far way away from your goal and you’ve already gone as far as you’ve ever gone before? (And you’re so tired you forget to look at your odometer so you can’t say how much further you had to go at that point?) You fix your eyes forward and you pedal. That’s it. You pedal past Carson and Del Amo and South Street. You pedal past all the equestrian properties in Lakewood. You pedal past the 91. You pedal past Rosecrans. You pedal past the 105, while somehow thinking, “At least, I’m not pedaling past the 105. That’s crazy far!”
When my odometer hit 50 miles, I past beneath Imperial Highway. I figured that would be a good place to stop for a break. After all, I’d ridden from Imperial Highway by Yorba Linda to Imperial Highway by Downey. Fuck. So, I had a bite to eat and drank from my diminishing water supplies. (Actually, what they don’t tell you about riding a century is what I like to call “water management.” You spend most of your time looking for places to find water and, um, get rid of… um, water…) Then, I started again. After all, I had to ride 54 miles before I could turn around. So, I rode past Firestone and Florence. I rode past the fucking 5 freeway! I rode past Telegraph Road and – at 54 miles – rode beneath… oh, shit. The street had no sign. Turns out, it was Slauson Avenue and I was in or around Pico Rivera… a very far way from home.
I turned around and hit smack in the face by the terrible reality of weather. You see, one of the reasons I left so early in the morning was so I could avoid being hit by the on-shore breeze that kicked up more as the day went on. Well, now it was about 11am or so… and the breeze was kicking. I threw my bike down into a much lower gear – fixed my eyes forward – and rode 16 miles through a constant wind right in my face. But I got back to PCH, if you can believe it. For that alone, I was proud of myself. Oh, and one more thing, I had now ridden 69 miles. No joke – and just one mile below my longest ride to date.
Another rider took a break where I was eating my snack and I struck up a conversation. Now, this guy was the picture of health and certainly looked like a hardcore rider. I figured he was probably on a long-distance ride of his own. So, I asked, “How long you riding today?” “Just to here,” he replied. No kidding. Well, after we clarified things, I found out he was riding 17 miles that day and he had never even considered riding a century, though he was interested in hearing about mine. My point in telling you this is you never know about a person by looking. More importantly, though, never think you aren’t capable just because you don’t look the part. I do NOT look like someone capable of riding a century – but I was the one putting myself through it.
And put myself I did… or something… Back down the coast, I coasted. Once back at Sunset Beach, enough beachgoers had arrived to make riding at the beach the pleasure you know it can be. By this, of course, I mean lots of underaged chicks with hardly any clothes on. Yes, I’m a perv but I was a perv on a mission… no, I mean the ride… no, I mean the bike ride…
I got back to the SART at about 1pm with 82 miles on the bike. Now, here’s the thing. Home is 17 miles up the SART and I needed 18. I was going to come in about a mile short. Fuck it – I wanted to go home.
With the wind at my back, I pedaled a respectable (for my weight and out-of-shapity, at least) 14 MPH. Sure enough, I pulled into my neighborhood – What? I was tired. Those last 17 miles were hell. You hear back talk about “hitting a wall”? Well, I hit a wall every mile. It was agony. All I can tell you is that I learned your body can only be in so much pain at one time before it says, “You just don’t care, do you?” – Anyway, I pulled into my neighborhood a mile short but that didn’t seem to matter. Suddenly, that last mile, I felt invincible! All the pain melted away and I rode around a couple of blocks like a 14 year old and not a 44 year old! (And looking kinda like an ass, too, I imagine.) When I pulled up to my driveway, I had 99.87 miles. I was going to stop there and let “rounding” do the rest of my word for me but I could hear Vicky’s voice say, “Don’t you want to see that turn over to 100?” She later assured me that was not her but my own neurosis. Okay, so my neurosis sounds like Vicky. I did two laps in my driveway – it’s a long driveway – and turned the odometer to 100.01 miles.
Sweaty, stinky, and in a fuckload of pain… I had done it.
Yes, you read that right – probably left to right – I completely my first 100 mile cycling trip. I woke up an hour or so ago in just a whole lot of pain and went to take some more advil. I figure my muscles are in shock right about now, screaming, “What have you done to us?!” Silly muscles…
The ride began at 5:15 yesterday morning. My alarm went off and my first thought was, “What are Vicky and I doing to – oh…” And as reality sank in, I knew the day had arrived. I tried to find a way to get off the hook but Vicky (who seems to like watching me put myself in these awkward positions) kept saying, “No, you can do this.” She has so much faith in me… God, I hate her…
Anyway, I got up – put on my gear – loaded my pack full of food for the trip – filled up my water bottles – checked my tires and chain – and completely forgot to take some advil before I left or take any on the trip. You see, taking some advil before leaving on a long ride helps my body cope with the incredible amounts of pain long rides create and taking a bottle meant I could keep the pain at manageable levels… and I forgot both of those things… stooopid…
My butt began hurting as soon as it landed on the seat as I pulled out of my driveway. I rode up my street to the Santa Ana River Trail (“SART” from here on), which is about when my wrists began hurting. You might not expect the wrist pain but, believe me, it is very much part of the process. I am only beginning to learn how to balance my weight with my core muscles and how to utilize my arm muscles to mediate my weight so it’s not all put on my wrists… but mostly I put most of my weight on my wrists. Yep. We’re talking about nearly 250 pounds… on my wrists… surprised they don’t just snap off like twigs, really…
I hit the SART at about 6am and began the ride by cycling up to Imperial Highway and the Yorba Linda border. This way, I could put over 10 miles of the ride behind me before heading to the shore, thus reducing the ride from 100 miles to 90 miles… which is bullshit because 90 miles is still fucking insane… but I digress…
It really is insane, though…
I hit the end of the SART and Huntington Beach by about 8am. A good start. There wasn’t much traffic, which meant I could cycle as fast as I wanted without having to worry about passing anybody. My speeds in this part of the ride were up around 20 MPH… yeah… I’d soon be missing that…
The beach was pretty vacant at 8am. Lots of joggers, people getting a jump on the day. The speed limit when you’re riding on the beach is 10MPH. I rode on the beach because I wanted to keep my speed down; I had to last for many hours, yet.
When the beach trail ended at Warner Avenue (Sunset Beach), I took my first break. I hadn’t checked my odometer yet and did so at this point. I had ridden 34 miles. The route for the ride not being a perfect loop, I knew I’d have to complete the first 54 before turning around. That meant, I still had 20 miles to go. My first thought was, “Shit…” I would also be leaving the safety of riding on the beach to riding along Pacific Coast Highway (or “PCH”) with all the traffic. My second thought was “Shit…” But my speed on PCH was still good. I was up to about 20 MPH all the way up to Seal Beach… when my chain fell off. Yep… right off my bike. But I’d gone too far to turn back – actually, I hadn’t but the pain had dulled my ability to make excuses, I guess. So, I got the chain back on – then, it popped off again – and I got the chain back on again and, though it stayed on, it made some ugly noises for the rest of the ride.
At the Long Beach border, I turned onto the San Gabriel River Trail (or “SGRT”). This would take me up to 54 miles and the turn-around point. The SGRT is narrow and busy and, worse still, VERY poorly maintained for the first few miles. So, my already battered taint got to feel lots and lots of beating from all the holes and bumps… lots of fun… Why did I do this again? For those of you who get that part but don’t understand why “narrow and busy” is bad, imagine a group of 50 cyclists going 25 MPH passing within two inches of your face…
The furthest ride I’d take previous to this had been to El Dorado Regional Park in Los Alamitos. But that had only been a 70 mile ride. Even with the 10 miles cut out at the beginning, this still sucked…
So, what do you do when you’re a really far way away from your goal and you’ve already gone as far as you’ve ever gone before? (And you’re so tired you forget to look at your odometer so you can’t say how much further you had to go at that point?) You fix your eyes forward and you pedal. That’s it. You pedal past Carson and Del Amo and South Street. You pedal past all the equestrian properties in Lakewood. You pedal past the 91. You pedal past Rosecrans. You pedal past the 105, while somehow thinking, “At least, I’m not pedaling past the 105. That’s crazy far!”
When my odometer hit 50 miles, I past beneath Imperial Highway. I figured that would be a good place to stop for a break. After all, I’d ridden from Imperial Highway by Yorba Linda to Imperial Highway by Downey. Fuck. So, I had a bite to eat and drank from my diminishing water supplies. (Actually, what they don’t tell you about riding a century is what I like to call “water management.” You spend most of your time looking for places to find water and, um, get rid of… um, water…) Then, I started again. After all, I had to ride 54 miles before I could turn around. So, I rode past Firestone and Florence. I rode past the fucking 5 freeway! I rode past Telegraph Road and – at 54 miles – rode beneath… oh, shit. The street had no sign. Turns out, it was Slauson Avenue and I was in or around Pico Rivera… a very far way from home.
I turned around and hit smack in the face by the terrible reality of weather. You see, one of the reasons I left so early in the morning was so I could avoid being hit by the on-shore breeze that kicked up more as the day went on. Well, now it was about 11am or so… and the breeze was kicking. I threw my bike down into a much lower gear – fixed my eyes forward – and rode 16 miles through a constant wind right in my face. But I got back to PCH, if you can believe it. For that alone, I was proud of myself. Oh, and one more thing, I had now ridden 69 miles. No joke – and just one mile below my longest ride to date.
Another rider took a break where I was eating my snack and I struck up a conversation. Now, this guy was the picture of health and certainly looked like a hardcore rider. I figured he was probably on a long-distance ride of his own. So, I asked, “How long you riding today?” “Just to here,” he replied. No kidding. Well, after we clarified things, I found out he was riding 17 miles that day and he had never even considered riding a century, though he was interested in hearing about mine. My point in telling you this is you never know about a person by looking. More importantly, though, never think you aren’t capable just because you don’t look the part. I do NOT look like someone capable of riding a century – but I was the one putting myself through it.
And put myself I did… or something… Back down the coast, I coasted. Once back at Sunset Beach, enough beachgoers had arrived to make riding at the beach the pleasure you know it can be. By this, of course, I mean lots of underaged chicks with hardly any clothes on. Yes, I’m a perv but I was a perv on a mission… no, I mean the ride… no, I mean the bike ride…
I got back to the SART at about 1pm with 82 miles on the bike. Now, here’s the thing. Home is 17 miles up the SART and I needed 18. I was going to come in about a mile short. Fuck it – I wanted to go home.
With the wind at my back, I pedaled a respectable (for my weight and out-of-shapity, at least) 14 MPH. Sure enough, I pulled into my neighborhood – What? I was tired. Those last 17 miles were hell. You hear back talk about “hitting a wall”? Well, I hit a wall every mile. It was agony. All I can tell you is that I learned your body can only be in so much pain at one time before it says, “You just don’t care, do you?” – Anyway, I pulled into my neighborhood a mile short but that didn’t seem to matter. Suddenly, that last mile, I felt invincible! All the pain melted away and I rode around a couple of blocks like a 14 year old and not a 44 year old! (And looking kinda like an ass, too, I imagine.) When I pulled up to my driveway, I had 99.87 miles. I was going to stop there and let “rounding” do the rest of my word for me but I could hear Vicky’s voice say, “Don’t you want to see that turn over to 100?” She later assured me that was not her but my own neurosis. Okay, so my neurosis sounds like Vicky. I did two laps in my driveway – it’s a long driveway – and turned the odometer to 100.01 miles.
Sweaty, stinky, and in a fuckload of pain… I had done it.
Thursday, July 01, 2010
On routes and men not straight…
So, I was thinking about something just now and thought, “I should put that on a blog somewhere… wait… I have a blog…”
So, this will be a two-fer, which only seems appropriate given how long it’s been since I posted a one-fer.
First… I’ve been running into a lot of plays written by straight men in which a gay man must inseminate a woman desperate to have their child – with HILARIOUS consequences! I don’t know which disturbs me, the idea that these playwrights feel it so important to make gay men a part of straight life or that they can only write these plays as comedies. Gentlemen. Listen. I know this happens, which makes it far from cutting edge. Okay? Also, there are seriously ramifications to this… so let’s stop making jokes about things we know nothing about. Okay?
Second… Vicky has it in her head that I’m going to ride a century tomorrow. A century, for those unfamiliar with the term is a 100 mile ride. It would be my first… and I am terrified at the prospect. I’ve ridden 70 miles and a good friend of mine told me that the difference between 70 and 100 is mental… so…
Now, I cycle on the Santa Ana River Trail (or SART, as we call it). This is far from 100 miles long, so I have to get creative. This means, I’ll start out riding up the trail for a distance, then back down to the beach. Then, I’ll ride up the beach to the San Gabriel River Trail and up that for a long, long time… then, I’ll have to come home.
The thought of being in pain for six hours or so – and this is what I anticipate, pain for six hours or so – is not a pleasant one. But I feel like I need to try it. Anyway, the Tour de France begins on Saturday and what better way to usher that in?... I mean, aside from staying home and watching it like a sensible person…
So, this will be a two-fer, which only seems appropriate given how long it’s been since I posted a one-fer.
First… I’ve been running into a lot of plays written by straight men in which a gay man must inseminate a woman desperate to have their child – with HILARIOUS consequences! I don’t know which disturbs me, the idea that these playwrights feel it so important to make gay men a part of straight life or that they can only write these plays as comedies. Gentlemen. Listen. I know this happens, which makes it far from cutting edge. Okay? Also, there are seriously ramifications to this… so let’s stop making jokes about things we know nothing about. Okay?
Second… Vicky has it in her head that I’m going to ride a century tomorrow. A century, for those unfamiliar with the term is a 100 mile ride. It would be my first… and I am terrified at the prospect. I’ve ridden 70 miles and a good friend of mine told me that the difference between 70 and 100 is mental… so…
Now, I cycle on the Santa Ana River Trail (or SART, as we call it). This is far from 100 miles long, so I have to get creative. This means, I’ll start out riding up the trail for a distance, then back down to the beach. Then, I’ll ride up the beach to the San Gabriel River Trail and up that for a long, long time… then, I’ll have to come home.
The thought of being in pain for six hours or so – and this is what I anticipate, pain for six hours or so – is not a pleasant one. But I feel like I need to try it. Anyway, the Tour de France begins on Saturday and what better way to usher that in?... I mean, aside from staying home and watching it like a sensible person…
Monday, May 24, 2010
Horray for Hollywood…
Okay, yes, it’s been a while. Would you believe me if I said I got tired of telling you I’m unemployed? Honestly, it just gets old.
So, prepare to go from “unemployed” to “Hollywood” in two seconds.
One.
Two.
Last night, Vicky and I took a few friends with us up to Hollywood to see the production of my play, Myth of the Cubicle. It was my first full production so – yes – I was nervous. Actually, I was practically epileptic. But Vicky drove, so we were safe.
Stepping up to the will-call counter, I gave my name to claim my comps. I was really worried they wouldn’t know who the hell I was or that they had misplaced my tickets or something god-awful. I’ve kinda come to expect the god-awful in my life. Vicky says I set the bar so low I dig a trench.
Not only did they have the tickets but the guy at the counter was also the director of my play and he was very happy to meet me. I was happy to meet him, too, but I was also curious why anyone would be happy to meet me.
In we went and took our seats. I had written a romantic (or, at least, I thought it was romantic) thank you to Vicky in the program – but the lights were out so we couldn’t read the program, thus defeating that entirely. But Vicky pulled out her phone and used that as a light source so she could read it. That woman is resourceful!
As for the play… what can I tell you without sounding like an egomaniac? It was fucking awesome. The actors were fantastic and the director really brought the show to life with lots of movement and bits I would never have considered. One of our friends said they didn’t really understand or have the maturity to understand the comedy of the piece – but I think they worked in their own comedy, which is what it’s all about. Bottom line: they made my work look great and I was elated.
After, I met the cast and was showered with admiration – THIS NEVER HAPPENS TO ME!... so I was surprised…
They’re talking about opening it in another theater in a month or two up in LA. It’s unreal and I’m very happy about it.
Sorry for being quiet for so long. I gotta work on that.
So, prepare to go from “unemployed” to “Hollywood” in two seconds.
One.
Two.
Last night, Vicky and I took a few friends with us up to Hollywood to see the production of my play, Myth of the Cubicle. It was my first full production so – yes – I was nervous. Actually, I was practically epileptic. But Vicky drove, so we were safe.
Stepping up to the will-call counter, I gave my name to claim my comps. I was really worried they wouldn’t know who the hell I was or that they had misplaced my tickets or something god-awful. I’ve kinda come to expect the god-awful in my life. Vicky says I set the bar so low I dig a trench.
Not only did they have the tickets but the guy at the counter was also the director of my play and he was very happy to meet me. I was happy to meet him, too, but I was also curious why anyone would be happy to meet me.
In we went and took our seats. I had written a romantic (or, at least, I thought it was romantic) thank you to Vicky in the program – but the lights were out so we couldn’t read the program, thus defeating that entirely. But Vicky pulled out her phone and used that as a light source so she could read it. That woman is resourceful!
As for the play… what can I tell you without sounding like an egomaniac? It was fucking awesome. The actors were fantastic and the director really brought the show to life with lots of movement and bits I would never have considered. One of our friends said they didn’t really understand or have the maturity to understand the comedy of the piece – but I think they worked in their own comedy, which is what it’s all about. Bottom line: they made my work look great and I was elated.
After, I met the cast and was showered with admiration – THIS NEVER HAPPENS TO ME!... so I was surprised…
They’re talking about opening it in another theater in a month or two up in LA. It’s unreal and I’m very happy about it.
Sorry for being quiet for so long. I gotta work on that.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Monday, February 15, 2010
How long does it take to write a book…
Around Christmas, I got this idea for a book. I’d been writing plays like crazy – what was the final tally? around five or six? – so I questioned the wisdom of returning to long-form writing. But the thing was this: I’d been writing plays so fast, I couldn’t process them fast enough to try and sell them. I was creating a back-log of plays that were just sitting there, unread, unseen… until who knew when…
With the holiday passed, I told Vicky right around New Year’s Eve that I would next write a book. (She might remember it slightly differently – cause I’m old and stupid.) At first, making the switch from plays to novels was uncomfortable. In a play, you just write dialogue, which is easy for me. But in a novel, you paint the entire landscape and I always have a problem with details. But around January 15th, I was able to update my Facebook status quite happily with the news that I had completed one-third of the new novel, which I decided to call The Wrong Magic. The Wrong Magic is about a couple with no magic in their relationship who find that even the wrong magic is better than none at all. But more on that later.
With one month between January 15th and today, I actually completed the other two-thirds of the book, finishing it last night. A month and a half to complete a book is pretty astonishing. I chalk it up to having lots of free time, of course.
The Wrong Magic is the kind of book I’ve been shooting for for many years now. Very marketable, it is movie-ready right out of the gate. You could film it as a summer rom-com with B-list actors and make a decent return without too much work. It is full of whimsy and romance and comedy and drama; I’m almost tempted to say all the books before it let me to this… but it was also pretty random.
What’s next? Well, after I step back from it for a bit to get a little perspective, I’ll dive back in and go through my re-writing process. Since I do so much tweaking as I write, re-writing is a fairly painless process. Mostly, it’s about inserting all the crap I usually forget to include: details. What did the house look like? What did they eat? What were they wearing? As I said, I write dialogue very easily and sometimes I forget to do the rest. So, I’ve basically built a process that addresses my weaknesses.
After that, Vicky will proof it and also be my first reader. How long it takes her to proof the book will also tell me how good it is. For instance, Daughter of a One-Armed Man took Vicky nearly a year to proof – that was pretty damned frustrating, let me tell you! On the other hand, she proofed Last Ditch in about a month because she couldn’t put it down.
All told, I’m looking to start submitting this and trying to sell it in April, if everything works out right. We’ll see.
In the meantime, I’m going to back to plays because I like being ambidextrous in a way…
With the holiday passed, I told Vicky right around New Year’s Eve that I would next write a book. (She might remember it slightly differently – cause I’m old and stupid.) At first, making the switch from plays to novels was uncomfortable. In a play, you just write dialogue, which is easy for me. But in a novel, you paint the entire landscape and I always have a problem with details. But around January 15th, I was able to update my Facebook status quite happily with the news that I had completed one-third of the new novel, which I decided to call The Wrong Magic. The Wrong Magic is about a couple with no magic in their relationship who find that even the wrong magic is better than none at all. But more on that later.
With one month between January 15th and today, I actually completed the other two-thirds of the book, finishing it last night. A month and a half to complete a book is pretty astonishing. I chalk it up to having lots of free time, of course.
The Wrong Magic is the kind of book I’ve been shooting for for many years now. Very marketable, it is movie-ready right out of the gate. You could film it as a summer rom-com with B-list actors and make a decent return without too much work. It is full of whimsy and romance and comedy and drama; I’m almost tempted to say all the books before it let me to this… but it was also pretty random.
What’s next? Well, after I step back from it for a bit to get a little perspective, I’ll dive back in and go through my re-writing process. Since I do so much tweaking as I write, re-writing is a fairly painless process. Mostly, it’s about inserting all the crap I usually forget to include: details. What did the house look like? What did they eat? What were they wearing? As I said, I write dialogue very easily and sometimes I forget to do the rest. So, I’ve basically built a process that addresses my weaknesses.
After that, Vicky will proof it and also be my first reader. How long it takes her to proof the book will also tell me how good it is. For instance, Daughter of a One-Armed Man took Vicky nearly a year to proof – that was pretty damned frustrating, let me tell you! On the other hand, she proofed Last Ditch in about a month because she couldn’t put it down.
All told, I’m looking to start submitting this and trying to sell it in April, if everything works out right. We’ll see.
In the meantime, I’m going to back to plays because I like being ambidextrous in a way…
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Segregate moments…
That’s how I like to write blog entries, as moments segregated from the rest as in a theme…
Not this time.
The fact is I have no news whatsoever and yet find it awfully silly that I have a blog with no entries. So, fuck it. Let’s go potluck!
I’ve been having some very strange health problems of late. First, it was my left arm. Now, it’s my right arm. Pain and tingling all up and down. I thought I was having a heart attack from all the stress I’ve been under but then several days passed so I ruled that out. Back in the early 90’s, I experienced a similar condition and my doctor fixed it with anti-inflammatory medication and a neck brace. (Cervical spine compression caused by stress, Old Doc Ken says.) I still have the neck brace. (Who’s a packrat?!) So, I tried that. And it helped. But it’s not helping so much for the right arm… dammit…
What’s to be stressed about? Well, I’ve almost run out of unemployment benefits. How’s that? We’re waiting to see if I can get an extension but news on that is like women who want to fuck so… sorry, that was inappropriate. I’m stressed. I can’t find a job and, believe me, I’ve tried. After working my ass off to make a career out of writing, it’s all circling the drain. Fuck.
What else?
Oh, here’s one I know you’ll enjoy. I had some short plays read at the meeting of a local playwriting group. And they were met fairly universally with disdain and derisive comments. I suck, was the general consensus. Really put me in my place. Fucking good for them. I’ve checked my readership recently and found that a certain someone still reads – and I’m pretty sure that made it all worthwhile.
Yep.
Stress.
Can’t find a job. All my plans are crashing down around me. I’m having health problems. Fucking Terrific.
See. There was a theme.
Not this time.
The fact is I have no news whatsoever and yet find it awfully silly that I have a blog with no entries. So, fuck it. Let’s go potluck!
I’ve been having some very strange health problems of late. First, it was my left arm. Now, it’s my right arm. Pain and tingling all up and down. I thought I was having a heart attack from all the stress I’ve been under but then several days passed so I ruled that out. Back in the early 90’s, I experienced a similar condition and my doctor fixed it with anti-inflammatory medication and a neck brace. (Cervical spine compression caused by stress, Old Doc Ken says.) I still have the neck brace. (Who’s a packrat?!) So, I tried that. And it helped. But it’s not helping so much for the right arm… dammit…
What’s to be stressed about? Well, I’ve almost run out of unemployment benefits. How’s that? We’re waiting to see if I can get an extension but news on that is like women who want to fuck so… sorry, that was inappropriate. I’m stressed. I can’t find a job and, believe me, I’ve tried. After working my ass off to make a career out of writing, it’s all circling the drain. Fuck.
What else?
Oh, here’s one I know you’ll enjoy. I had some short plays read at the meeting of a local playwriting group. And they were met fairly universally with disdain and derisive comments. I suck, was the general consensus. Really put me in my place. Fucking good for them. I’ve checked my readership recently and found that a certain someone still reads – and I’m pretty sure that made it all worthwhile.
Yep.
Stress.
Can’t find a job. All my plans are crashing down around me. I’m having health problems. Fucking Terrific.
See. There was a theme.
Wednesday, February 03, 2010
Where I’ve been lately…
Has anyone noticed how “early 21st century” blogs have become. I think that’s because it’s just so much easier for me to update my Facebook page with something like “Halfway done with the new book” than to actually write something substantive on my blog… or my other blog…
By the way, I’m halfway done with the new book.
That’s where I’ve been lately. Planted in front of my keyboard. During the day, I hit the submissions are hard as I can. Then, at night, I try to hammer out a couple thousand words on the new book. The job search stinks so this is my Plan B, if you will.
Nothing new to report, really. Just plugging away and hoping for the best.
By the way, I’m halfway done with the new book.
That’s where I’ve been lately. Planted in front of my keyboard. During the day, I hit the submissions are hard as I can. Then, at night, I try to hammer out a couple thousand words on the new book. The job search stinks so this is my Plan B, if you will.
Nothing new to report, really. Just plugging away and hoping for the best.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Thoughts on the halfway mark…
So, I reached the halfway point in my new novel, The Wrong Magic. I’m 40,000 words in and assuming this book has enough to take me to 80,000 or so. For some reason, this book feels like such a big deal to me – you know, even though it’s my (scary) 17th.
I have some idea as to why this is. I think it’s because I spent the last year writing plays, churning out something like nine or so – I lost count. So, I go back to long-form, novel writing and all I can think is, “Damn, Ken. You think you should do this?” I mean it’s one thing to string together a bunch of jokes, which is sometimes what I think I do with my plays, and another entirely to create plots and subplots and story arcs and enough tension and dynamism to last a whole novel long.
Of course, I haven’t gone a whole novel long. I’m only halfway there. But I think I’m going to make it. Vicky is absolutely sure – underwhelmingly sure. To her, I write books and plays like some people change socks. She doesn’t realize how each project puts me on this journey of low self-esteem: Am I Good Enough, that sort of thing.
So, standing here in the middle of the book, I thought I’d share something it has taught me. That’s one of the wonderful things about creating art (if I dare call anything I do that); you get back as you give. Sometimes, what you get back is an insight you had never considered before.
In this book, that insight is this: A writer is someone who has opened herself/himself/itself up to the possibilities of the universe and can hear the words that go down on paper, can see the story they’re telling, can almost reach through the layer separating real from imaginary.
I’ve been writing about this and it has me thinking about how that place is so privileged and so misunderstood. I mean, I can imagine you, dear reader, saying as you read, “Open to the possibilities of the universe, huh? That’s just a nice way of saying he’s full of shit.” As a writer, I’ve often had people misunderstand me, which has taught me the need to focus my craft and learn the need to communicate more effectively. But with the comes a sense that what I do is something most other people cannot begin to know.
It’s not something only a few can do. I know I’m not so very gifted that I don’t benefit from something nearly anyone can access. Opening yourself and listening to the world, their own impulses, and imagination is surely something we can all do.
Our society spends so much of its time teaching children to ignore those voices that tell us stories, to shut down the imagination so they can focus on their jobs in life. It is still my hope to make my job one in which I can remain open to possibilities, to stories and imagination. I just think it’s a shame sometimes that so many shut themselves off.
I have some idea as to why this is. I think it’s because I spent the last year writing plays, churning out something like nine or so – I lost count. So, I go back to long-form, novel writing and all I can think is, “Damn, Ken. You think you should do this?” I mean it’s one thing to string together a bunch of jokes, which is sometimes what I think I do with my plays, and another entirely to create plots and subplots and story arcs and enough tension and dynamism to last a whole novel long.
Of course, I haven’t gone a whole novel long. I’m only halfway there. But I think I’m going to make it. Vicky is absolutely sure – underwhelmingly sure. To her, I write books and plays like some people change socks. She doesn’t realize how each project puts me on this journey of low self-esteem: Am I Good Enough, that sort of thing.
So, standing here in the middle of the book, I thought I’d share something it has taught me. That’s one of the wonderful things about creating art (if I dare call anything I do that); you get back as you give. Sometimes, what you get back is an insight you had never considered before.
In this book, that insight is this: A writer is someone who has opened herself/himself/itself up to the possibilities of the universe and can hear the words that go down on paper, can see the story they’re telling, can almost reach through the layer separating real from imaginary.
I’ve been writing about this and it has me thinking about how that place is so privileged and so misunderstood. I mean, I can imagine you, dear reader, saying as you read, “Open to the possibilities of the universe, huh? That’s just a nice way of saying he’s full of shit.” As a writer, I’ve often had people misunderstand me, which has taught me the need to focus my craft and learn the need to communicate more effectively. But with the comes a sense that what I do is something most other people cannot begin to know.
It’s not something only a few can do. I know I’m not so very gifted that I don’t benefit from something nearly anyone can access. Opening yourself and listening to the world, their own impulses, and imagination is surely something we can all do.
Our society spends so much of its time teaching children to ignore those voices that tell us stories, to shut down the imagination so they can focus on their jobs in life. It is still my hope to make my job one in which I can remain open to possibilities, to stories and imagination. I just think it’s a shame sometimes that so many shut themselves off.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
One of those moments…
I think we all have moments in our lives that seem to be teaching us a lesson. Some of us listen in those moments. I’m trying to.
I was at the gym this morning, jogging on the treadmill. A fat woman – a really fat woman – was put on the treadmill next to me by a trainer and told to walk for 20 minutes. So, a few minutes pass, and the woman increases her speed. Then, a few more minutes pass, and the woman increases her speed some more. Now, she’s obviously going too fast for her level of fitness. So, a few more minutes pass, and she increases her speed some more. Now, she’s holding on for dear life, tries to take a drink from her water bottle, and nearly slips.
At this point, I think, “She’s going to fall. She’s going to fall.” And thinking of her falling, all I thought about was how it was going to affect me. I thought, “She’s going to fall and I’m going to have to help her – have to help her – have to help her!” It made me so angry.
And, sure enough, she fell. She increased her speed some more and she fell. And I stopped my treadmill and hurried to her asking if she was all right. She said she was but she wasn’t. She was mortified. She was nearly in tears. I told her it was okay, don’t feel bad; what was most important was that she was okay.
Her trainer came over and asked what had happened, which was kind of clear but I said, “She fell.” The trainer got angrier than I was inside, and inside I was fuming because my workout had been screwed up. But seeing this trainer get so mad, nearly to the point of shouting, it suddenly flashed on me that what I thought I was supposed to be there for – to work out – was NOT what I was supposed to be there for. Dumbass, I thought, THIS is what you’re here for!
It all took only about thirty seconds. The trainer took the woman away from the treadmill to get some water – but it was clear she was just taking her AWAY FROM THE TREADMILL. And I stopped my work out early. It was ruined not because of the woman falling but because I felt ashamed for thinking that was more important.
Hopefully, I’ll remember this in the future.
I was at the gym this morning, jogging on the treadmill. A fat woman – a really fat woman – was put on the treadmill next to me by a trainer and told to walk for 20 minutes. So, a few minutes pass, and the woman increases her speed. Then, a few more minutes pass, and the woman increases her speed some more. Now, she’s obviously going too fast for her level of fitness. So, a few more minutes pass, and she increases her speed some more. Now, she’s holding on for dear life, tries to take a drink from her water bottle, and nearly slips.
At this point, I think, “She’s going to fall. She’s going to fall.” And thinking of her falling, all I thought about was how it was going to affect me. I thought, “She’s going to fall and I’m going to have to help her – have to help her – have to help her!” It made me so angry.
And, sure enough, she fell. She increased her speed some more and she fell. And I stopped my treadmill and hurried to her asking if she was all right. She said she was but she wasn’t. She was mortified. She was nearly in tears. I told her it was okay, don’t feel bad; what was most important was that she was okay.
Her trainer came over and asked what had happened, which was kind of clear but I said, “She fell.” The trainer got angrier than I was inside, and inside I was fuming because my workout had been screwed up. But seeing this trainer get so mad, nearly to the point of shouting, it suddenly flashed on me that what I thought I was supposed to be there for – to work out – was NOT what I was supposed to be there for. Dumbass, I thought, THIS is what you’re here for!
It all took only about thirty seconds. The trainer took the woman away from the treadmill to get some water – but it was clear she was just taking her AWAY FROM THE TREADMILL. And I stopped my work out early. It was ruined not because of the woman falling but because I felt ashamed for thinking that was more important.
Hopefully, I’ll remember this in the future.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Verde Merde…
I often talk about how much I love to cook on this old blog but I never talk about what a mess I make sometimes in the process. And I’m not talking about dirty dishes here… though Vicky will attest to that as well. (I swear, I dirty ten dishes to make one dish!)
You see, I’ve been saying a lot lately that I’ve wanted to cook with tomatillos. I love tomatillos but that side of the vegetable garden is out of my cooking forte. I am Cajun and Italian and that’s about it. So, it was probably a bad idea from the start to bring tomatillos into a kind of cooking I enjoy. Somewhere, I got the idea about making a kind of tomatillo etouffee…
I know. Stop cringing.
For those of you who don’t know… you will. Etouffee is a creole dish that starts with celery, onion, and bell pepper (the “trinity”). You spice that up nice and tasty, throw in some crawfish or shrimp or whatnot and serve it with rice and it’s good. Where I went wrong was that I thought tomatillos would add a fruitiness you don’t normally get.
There’s a reason why you don’t normally get that.
And I omitted the rice, too. Another big mistake.
What Vicky and I ended up eating could have kindly been called “hot vegetable mash”. It was just gross.
And, oddly enough, there were leftovers. Imagine!
I immediately looked for a way to redeem myself and this came thanks to a comment from Vicky. “Too bad you can’t just make chili verde out of it.” Actually, I could. What is verde sauce but tomatillos, peppers, onions, with some ect.? So, I made some rice. Then, I seared a couple of chicken breasts in a hot cast iron skillet. I took a hand mixer (“bolt motor”) to the embarrassing mix in hope of redemption, and made it somewhat smooth. I poured it into the skillet, covered it, and threw the whole thing into a 350 degree oven for 25 minutes.
Out came culinary love, redemption on rice. Whew!
So, if you screw up, don’t worry about it. Just keep yourself open to new strategies! Anyway, you’ll never find those new, exciting recipes if you don’t allow yourself to screw up sometimes.
You see, I’ve been saying a lot lately that I’ve wanted to cook with tomatillos. I love tomatillos but that side of the vegetable garden is out of my cooking forte. I am Cajun and Italian and that’s about it. So, it was probably a bad idea from the start to bring tomatillos into a kind of cooking I enjoy. Somewhere, I got the idea about making a kind of tomatillo etouffee…
I know. Stop cringing.
For those of you who don’t know… you will. Etouffee is a creole dish that starts with celery, onion, and bell pepper (the “trinity”). You spice that up nice and tasty, throw in some crawfish or shrimp or whatnot and serve it with rice and it’s good. Where I went wrong was that I thought tomatillos would add a fruitiness you don’t normally get.
There’s a reason why you don’t normally get that.
And I omitted the rice, too. Another big mistake.
What Vicky and I ended up eating could have kindly been called “hot vegetable mash”. It was just gross.
And, oddly enough, there were leftovers. Imagine!
I immediately looked for a way to redeem myself and this came thanks to a comment from Vicky. “Too bad you can’t just make chili verde out of it.” Actually, I could. What is verde sauce but tomatillos, peppers, onions, with some ect.? So, I made some rice. Then, I seared a couple of chicken breasts in a hot cast iron skillet. I took a hand mixer (“bolt motor”) to the embarrassing mix in hope of redemption, and made it somewhat smooth. I poured it into the skillet, covered it, and threw the whole thing into a 350 degree oven for 25 minutes.
Out came culinary love, redemption on rice. Whew!
So, if you screw up, don’t worry about it. Just keep yourself open to new strategies! Anyway, you’ll never find those new, exciting recipes if you don’t allow yourself to screw up sometimes.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Another book and another play…
This year began with a hint of optimism. I had an agent ask to read With Eyes to See. I had another agent ask to read Wormfood. I had a play entered into a festival in Georgia. I had another play chosen as a finalist for an evening of one-acts in Hollywood.
Since then, the theater in Hollywood has gone without choosing my play – but that doesn’t make things any less optimistic. I’m submitting more books and plays to agents, publishers, and theaters than I am applying for jobs, which I assure you is more indicative of the job market than any attempt on my part. There are just more ways to submit work than jobs to apply for.
So, I’ve been working hard selling the old stuff and also coming up with new stuff.
The new book I’ve been working on is called The Wrong Magic. I just completed the first quarter of that and can give some idea of what that’s about. Here’s your semi-official blurb: After eight years of marriage, Stephanie and Alex are finished. Moving to Cambria, Alex is mistakenly shipped more than just his half of the stuff. He also finds himself in possession of the unfinished stories he never encouraged his wife to finish. So, he decides to finish them himself but soon finds elements of those stories popping up all around him. And when redwood trees begin dislodging homes, a butler appears out of nowhere, and a bicycle race is thrown into horrible disarray, Alex realizes he can use a little magic to get his wife back – even if it is the wrong magic.
The first quarter of the book is set-up, of course. How did they split up? What’s their back story? That kind of thing. The first quarter sets them on their separate paths and new lives – call it Act One. Act Two will involve the stories. Act Three will involve the magic. Act Four will involve the resolution. It’s a lot of fun, returning to novel writing after all those plays, and I think this one is good and marketable. As I’ve often said, I will happily sell out and write marketable over artistic at every opportunity.
And with that said… there’s another new play on the horizon. I don’t know how I’m going to shoehorn this in but my current, unemployed state provides me plenty of time to do it. As much as I would love to sit around and play video games, I just never seem to allow myself that luxury.
The new play starts with a bizarre idea. Two characters, a man and a woman, are on a stage. They agree that they should have complete honesty in their relationship. No lies. So, the woman tells the man, “I’m an actress and we’re in a play.” This idea has been with me since before Christmas but I wasn’t sure where it went from there. I mean, once you have a character in a play admit that it’s just a play – there go the barn doors.
I’ve entered a distinctly deconstructionist phase, one which Vicky doesn’t really understand. Hell, I don’t understand it, either – but that’s where the muse is taking me. So, where would a play that begins that way go? That would be telling. Suffice it to say, I had no idea until I began diagramming out the situation the man and woman find themselves in… and once I saw it, then I knew where it should go. Now, I just have to write it.
I am positive that the day will come when I run out of ideas, so I write today with an appreciation for the fortune I have in this area, at least. Anyway, when that day comes I’ll be able to catch up on my video game playing…
Since then, the theater in Hollywood has gone without choosing my play – but that doesn’t make things any less optimistic. I’m submitting more books and plays to agents, publishers, and theaters than I am applying for jobs, which I assure you is more indicative of the job market than any attempt on my part. There are just more ways to submit work than jobs to apply for.
So, I’ve been working hard selling the old stuff and also coming up with new stuff.
The new book I’ve been working on is called The Wrong Magic. I just completed the first quarter of that and can give some idea of what that’s about. Here’s your semi-official blurb: After eight years of marriage, Stephanie and Alex are finished. Moving to Cambria, Alex is mistakenly shipped more than just his half of the stuff. He also finds himself in possession of the unfinished stories he never encouraged his wife to finish. So, he decides to finish them himself but soon finds elements of those stories popping up all around him. And when redwood trees begin dislodging homes, a butler appears out of nowhere, and a bicycle race is thrown into horrible disarray, Alex realizes he can use a little magic to get his wife back – even if it is the wrong magic.
The first quarter of the book is set-up, of course. How did they split up? What’s their back story? That kind of thing. The first quarter sets them on their separate paths and new lives – call it Act One. Act Two will involve the stories. Act Three will involve the magic. Act Four will involve the resolution. It’s a lot of fun, returning to novel writing after all those plays, and I think this one is good and marketable. As I’ve often said, I will happily sell out and write marketable over artistic at every opportunity.
And with that said… there’s another new play on the horizon. I don’t know how I’m going to shoehorn this in but my current, unemployed state provides me plenty of time to do it. As much as I would love to sit around and play video games, I just never seem to allow myself that luxury.
The new play starts with a bizarre idea. Two characters, a man and a woman, are on a stage. They agree that they should have complete honesty in their relationship. No lies. So, the woman tells the man, “I’m an actress and we’re in a play.” This idea has been with me since before Christmas but I wasn’t sure where it went from there. I mean, once you have a character in a play admit that it’s just a play – there go the barn doors.
I’ve entered a distinctly deconstructionist phase, one which Vicky doesn’t really understand. Hell, I don’t understand it, either – but that’s where the muse is taking me. So, where would a play that begins that way go? That would be telling. Suffice it to say, I had no idea until I began diagramming out the situation the man and woman find themselves in… and once I saw it, then I knew where it should go. Now, I just have to write it.
I am positive that the day will come when I run out of ideas, so I write today with an appreciation for the fortune I have in this area, at least. Anyway, when that day comes I’ll be able to catch up on my video game playing…
Friday, January 01, 2010
Resolved… 2010…
Last year’s new year resolutions worked so well, I thought I would lay out some more for the new year…
Oh wait… last year’s didn’t work out at all. I resolved to buy more produce from local growers at farmer’s markets but I lost my job and couldn’t afford it. Oops… okay, so that one didn’t go quite as planned. BUT I did buy more locally grown produce thanks to the folks at my local Vons who bought more local produce. I’m not a big fan of the way they treat their employees but that was a step in the right direction. And we continued to shop at Henry’s, which buys locally as well. So, in as much as I could I tried to keep that one. My second resolution was to grow more produce… which also didn’t go so well. I mean, it had been a while since I gardened so I was a bit out of practice and things didn’t turn out so well. BUT I did grow a lot of tomatoes and they were very tasty and we had jalapenos and basil (my rosemary died a horrible death so let’s not get into that)!
So, they did work out… kinda…
So, let’s talk 2010!
Obviously, there are some things that go without saying. I’m going to continue to look for work, continue to write, continue to try to make a sale. I’m going to continue cycling, continue jogging, continue trying to eat healthy, and this spring I will plant another garden.
But, despite that… let’s face it. I know what I need to do. It’s looking back at me from the mirror.
I’m a fat fuck. Fat fat fat. Fatty fatty fatty. I’m a bit overweight.
Now, I’ve been doing a good job getting more serious about my health. I quit smoking. I took up cycling. Heck, I even began jogging again this year. But the fact is I could do better.
So, this year I am going to work on watching not just what I put in my body but how much. I have a terrible habit of loving food so much that I think more is better. More is not better. More is just more. But that’s my thing. I think “One burrito is good… so two or three or four would be wonderful!!” So, this year I am going to try and stop myself before I have a second helping or before I have a snack between meals. This isn’t something you can track but I think it’s a good idea to be aware of it all the same.
Here’s something I can track. Two years ago, I rode my first metric (which is 100 kilometers). Last year, I cycled two metrics. This year, I’m aiming for three. I’ve found a good, relatively safe route to take so doing more will be a bit easier.
Lastly, number three. The big one. Sugar. If there’s one thing I can do that would both help make this world a healthier place to live while also making me healthier, it is to cut back on my sugar. I love sugar. I love ice cream. I love cookies. I love pie. I love sweet drinks. I love sugar. But I know it’s not good for me and I’m only hurting myself by eating so much of it. So, I’m going to use 2010 as a time-out for sugar. I’m not going to go without, of course; I don’t know if I could. But I eat so much, I know I can cut my consumption considerably.
Those are my three things. Portions and sugar are going to be tough, so I’m asking Vicky’s help. She has expressed a desire to participate in the Disney Half-Marathon, so I’m going to be her partner in that. Together, I’m hoping we can help each other achieve our goals.
Oh wait… last year’s didn’t work out at all. I resolved to buy more produce from local growers at farmer’s markets but I lost my job and couldn’t afford it. Oops… okay, so that one didn’t go quite as planned. BUT I did buy more locally grown produce thanks to the folks at my local Vons who bought more local produce. I’m not a big fan of the way they treat their employees but that was a step in the right direction. And we continued to shop at Henry’s, which buys locally as well. So, in as much as I could I tried to keep that one. My second resolution was to grow more produce… which also didn’t go so well. I mean, it had been a while since I gardened so I was a bit out of practice and things didn’t turn out so well. BUT I did grow a lot of tomatoes and they were very tasty and we had jalapenos and basil (my rosemary died a horrible death so let’s not get into that)!
So, they did work out… kinda…
So, let’s talk 2010!
Obviously, there are some things that go without saying. I’m going to continue to look for work, continue to write, continue to try to make a sale. I’m going to continue cycling, continue jogging, continue trying to eat healthy, and this spring I will plant another garden.
But, despite that… let’s face it. I know what I need to do. It’s looking back at me from the mirror.
I’m a fat fuck. Fat fat fat. Fatty fatty fatty. I’m a bit overweight.
Now, I’ve been doing a good job getting more serious about my health. I quit smoking. I took up cycling. Heck, I even began jogging again this year. But the fact is I could do better.
So, this year I am going to work on watching not just what I put in my body but how much. I have a terrible habit of loving food so much that I think more is better. More is not better. More is just more. But that’s my thing. I think “One burrito is good… so two or three or four would be wonderful!!” So, this year I am going to try and stop myself before I have a second helping or before I have a snack between meals. This isn’t something you can track but I think it’s a good idea to be aware of it all the same.
Here’s something I can track. Two years ago, I rode my first metric (which is 100 kilometers). Last year, I cycled two metrics. This year, I’m aiming for three. I’ve found a good, relatively safe route to take so doing more will be a bit easier.
Lastly, number three. The big one. Sugar. If there’s one thing I can do that would both help make this world a healthier place to live while also making me healthier, it is to cut back on my sugar. I love sugar. I love ice cream. I love cookies. I love pie. I love sweet drinks. I love sugar. But I know it’s not good for me and I’m only hurting myself by eating so much of it. So, I’m going to use 2010 as a time-out for sugar. I’m not going to go without, of course; I don’t know if I could. But I eat so much, I know I can cut my consumption considerably.
Those are my three things. Portions and sugar are going to be tough, so I’m asking Vicky’s help. She has expressed a desire to participate in the Disney Half-Marathon, so I’m going to be her partner in that. Together, I’m hoping we can help each other achieve our goals.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
And so we reach the end of another...
(NOTE: This went out to my friends and family in email form but I know there are plenty of you who keep up via the blog, so...)
It’s the end of a decade – the end of the decade nobody knew what to call. “The Shrub Era”? “The Oughts”? Now people can comfortably settle into the teens and how nice that will be… I’m sure we all hope…
I would like to say a word or two about this past year, 2009, but before I do that – a word or two about this decade. You might say this was a pretty bad year for me, unemployed for 11 months without a nibble on a job or a sale, but please consider… I began this decade with the loss of my first wife and spent four or five or six or seven years finding my way out of those mires. I’ve lost friends, Megan foremost among them. I lost my father. I went to the Grand Canyon to try and kill myself and found that self-destruction does not end when you step away from the edge. All in all, there were other years I would wish to repeat far less than the one that just past.
This past decade held more than its share of lovely memories as well. This was the decade of Vicky. I won’t say we never have our problems but there’s no one I would rather have them with. This was the decade I returned to the stage. I wrote my first play in this decade. Imagine this for a second: in the last 10 years (yes, I’m going back to 1999 – sorry – chronology sucks), I have completed nine novels and 12 full-length plays. My sales record may be abysmal but I’ve had four staged readings and I can say that with every novel or play my quality improves just a little bit. I have learned that being an artist is not about making money and I have found fulfillment in that. This achievement is due mostly to my first book on philosophy, a memoir called Climbing Maya.
I’ve been blessed – in a completely unreligious, non-spooky supernatural way, I assure you – with the gifts of so many people. Annie and Lori convinced me to write my first play. Steve offered to direct it before he even saw it. Sherryl and Chris and Stephanie and Tony have worked with me along the way, supporting me with their amazing talents – especially Stephanie who is my most dedicated fan and who has cheered me on all along the way despite my lack of monetary compensation. Eric has inspired me to take my writing to the next level and, along with the Orange County Playwrights Alliance, have provided me a home amongst peers. Sean has been a friend who has stood by me every step of the way, through some of the worst times for us both. And my family – the screwiest bunch of lunatics you ever want to meet – has popped in and out, together and apart, for too many weddings and too many funerals and not enough lottery winnings. Then, there are those I met, those who came back into my life, and those who left, all adding to a cast of characters I could never measure up to in any of my writing. And then, there is Vicky. If it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t have started writing again after a significant drought. She married me in the good times and has stuck by me in bad. Heck, she’s kept the trains running on time while I’ve been off on this artistic excursion. (Yes, we recently acquired trains…) She started out refusing to be “a fan” and is now one of my biggest. She’s the best friend I could hope for and she’s also a colossal pain in my ass and I consider myself lucky.
It’s been one hell of a decade, is what I’m saying.
So, this year hasn’t been the worst. It didn’t need to be the best… would’ve been nice, but… Say what you want about unemployment and what you like about the economy, here’s what I got. I’ve had eleven months to pursue being an artist, which is something most people don’t get. That pursuit produced eleven plays and the beginnings of my next novel – good work including a play about finding your way after the death of a loved one, crazy work including a Marx Brother’s comedy with one protracted poop joke, political work about the death of ethics, and one very surreal absurdist piece that makes me believe I’ve finally after all these years created actual art. It wasn’t the year I wanted. It was the year I got.
This might not have been the decade I wanted when I rang it in with a certain someone so many years ago but it was the one I got. So it is with everything. So it is with life.
And so I close with a suggestion that you may not have the happiest new year and the next decade may not bring everything you want, but it will be what it will be. Find the good times, find the loveliness, and share them with those who matter to you most. That’s what one decade has taught me.
It’s the end of a decade – the end of the decade nobody knew what to call. “The Shrub Era”? “The Oughts”? Now people can comfortably settle into the teens and how nice that will be… I’m sure we all hope…
I would like to say a word or two about this past year, 2009, but before I do that – a word or two about this decade. You might say this was a pretty bad year for me, unemployed for 11 months without a nibble on a job or a sale, but please consider… I began this decade with the loss of my first wife and spent four or five or six or seven years finding my way out of those mires. I’ve lost friends, Megan foremost among them. I lost my father. I went to the Grand Canyon to try and kill myself and found that self-destruction does not end when you step away from the edge. All in all, there were other years I would wish to repeat far less than the one that just past.
This past decade held more than its share of lovely memories as well. This was the decade of Vicky. I won’t say we never have our problems but there’s no one I would rather have them with. This was the decade I returned to the stage. I wrote my first play in this decade. Imagine this for a second: in the last 10 years (yes, I’m going back to 1999 – sorry – chronology sucks), I have completed nine novels and 12 full-length plays. My sales record may be abysmal but I’ve had four staged readings and I can say that with every novel or play my quality improves just a little bit. I have learned that being an artist is not about making money and I have found fulfillment in that. This achievement is due mostly to my first book on philosophy, a memoir called Climbing Maya.
I’ve been blessed – in a completely unreligious, non-spooky supernatural way, I assure you – with the gifts of so many people. Annie and Lori convinced me to write my first play. Steve offered to direct it before he even saw it. Sherryl and Chris and Stephanie and Tony have worked with me along the way, supporting me with their amazing talents – especially Stephanie who is my most dedicated fan and who has cheered me on all along the way despite my lack of monetary compensation. Eric has inspired me to take my writing to the next level and, along with the Orange County Playwrights Alliance, have provided me a home amongst peers. Sean has been a friend who has stood by me every step of the way, through some of the worst times for us both. And my family – the screwiest bunch of lunatics you ever want to meet – has popped in and out, together and apart, for too many weddings and too many funerals and not enough lottery winnings. Then, there are those I met, those who came back into my life, and those who left, all adding to a cast of characters I could never measure up to in any of my writing. And then, there is Vicky. If it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t have started writing again after a significant drought. She married me in the good times and has stuck by me in bad. Heck, she’s kept the trains running on time while I’ve been off on this artistic excursion. (Yes, we recently acquired trains…) She started out refusing to be “a fan” and is now one of my biggest. She’s the best friend I could hope for and she’s also a colossal pain in my ass and I consider myself lucky.
It’s been one hell of a decade, is what I’m saying.
So, this year hasn’t been the worst. It didn’t need to be the best… would’ve been nice, but… Say what you want about unemployment and what you like about the economy, here’s what I got. I’ve had eleven months to pursue being an artist, which is something most people don’t get. That pursuit produced eleven plays and the beginnings of my next novel – good work including a play about finding your way after the death of a loved one, crazy work including a Marx Brother’s comedy with one protracted poop joke, political work about the death of ethics, and one very surreal absurdist piece that makes me believe I’ve finally after all these years created actual art. It wasn’t the year I wanted. It was the year I got.
This might not have been the decade I wanted when I rang it in with a certain someone so many years ago but it was the one I got. So it is with everything. So it is with life.
And so I close with a suggestion that you may not have the happiest new year and the next decade may not bring everything you want, but it will be what it will be. Find the good times, find the loveliness, and share them with those who matter to you most. That’s what one decade has taught me.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
I guess you can say I’m all caught up…
It was spring or it was early summer. I was 16 or 17 years old. Okay, so much of it is a blur but the things I do remember were that we were all standing at the top of the stairs in front of Valley High School’s auditorium. Roy Johnson, only a couple of years older than me but more self-assured than any age would make me capable, was showing off his new short story. It was called Snails or something. The important thing was it was genius.
And everyone was saying so.
And I was so desperate for attention back then that I said something like, “So? I can do that.” I was so young that my brain hadn’t quite caught on. Now, if I said something like that, my brain would immediately be asking, “What? When did this happen? I didn’t know about this!” Which is probably why I don’t say things like that any longer. In fact, now when people ask me if I’m a writer, I tend to shrug it off.
But not back then.
And everyone knew it. The guys up there on the top of the steps weren’t just my friends in high school but the other guys from theater, who knew me well enough to know I was full of shit. Talented? Sure. Smart? Maybe. But without a doubt completely full of shit. They turned on me like a crown of young men will and very quickly had me saying things like, “Yeah, I’ve started a novel at home. I just haven’t shown it to anyone, yet.”
Nestor, a big guy who could be your best friend or most vicious adversary depending on lunch or which was the wind blew, suggested he’d really like to see that book. Yeah, Ken, why don’t you bring that book to school and we’ll let you know how good it is…
My stride was calm and confident as I walked home that afternoon, all the while wishing to run because I knew I hadn’t started a novel. In fact, I’d never written a thing in my life.
Oh sure, there were those articles and goofy comedy bits I did for the school newspaper way back in junior high. (This was before My Side, the column I had in high school and so on.) But that would hardly count. No, I had to come up with the beginnings of a novel or fess up to being full of shit.
So, I went home and wrote the beginning of a novel. I wrote several chapters of a book I’d never finish – but there it was. And it wasn’t bad. And, I thought, I really could do this. Imagine!
Roy Johnson never became a famous writer but odds are he became happy. At least, I hope he is happy wherever he is. If it weren’t for him, I would never have become a writer… and I’ve been trying to prove it ever since.
This memory popped back into my head the other day, as I put the last lines down for a new play. That makes six full-length plays I finished this year. Six. Wow. And a sudden, strange inclination had me counting all the books and plays I’d written.
One by one, I counted off the books:
My Side
This Land is My Land
Revelations
A Hex Upon Rynia
The Sons of Rynia: A Rynia trilogy whose books I never got around to naming
Vampire Society
A Grand Canyon
No More Blue Roses
With Eyes to See
Wormfood
Climbing Maya
Love of Your Life
Daughter of a One-Armed Man
Last Ditch
Sixteen. Sixteen books.
One by one, I counted off the plays:
Everything Changes
Atheists
Whatever Happened To Me?
After You Fall
Murielle’s Big Date
Meaning.
Murder, Zombies, the Devil… and stuff…
Sometimes We Find Our Way
Diamonds to Go
The Death of Ethics, etc.
Friends, First
Happily After Ever
Twelve. Twelve plays.
That makes 28 full-length books and plays. This doesn’t include the short plays or short stories or poems or essays or (god forbid) blog entries…
And then I did a bit more math… and I realized that for every year after Roy Johnson and that first moment when I boasted that I could write, I’ve completed writing one book or one play. One a year since the age of 16… still trying to prove myself.
And another memory pops into my head. Ms. Von’s English class… a girl named Michelle asked, “Ms. Von, do you think Ken will ever make it as a writer?” Ms. Von tilted her glance over at me. “If he remains prolific, he will.”
If he remains prolific.
Well, a book or a play each year for 28 years… that’s gotta count, right?
And I thought of this… and I laid down the opening of a new book. This one’s called The Wrong Magic and it’s about how we rely on magic in our lives, in our relationships, and how unreliable it really is… Of course, that’s not all. I’ll tell you more later…
It was spring or it was early summer. I was 16 or 17 years old. Okay, so much of it is a blur but the things I do remember were that we were all standing at the top of the stairs in front of Valley High School’s auditorium. Roy Johnson, only a couple of years older than me but more self-assured than any age would make me capable, was showing off his new short story. It was called Snails or something. The important thing was it was genius.
And everyone was saying so.
And I was so desperate for attention back then that I said something like, “So? I can do that.” I was so young that my brain hadn’t quite caught on. Now, if I said something like that, my brain would immediately be asking, “What? When did this happen? I didn’t know about this!” Which is probably why I don’t say things like that any longer. In fact, now when people ask me if I’m a writer, I tend to shrug it off.
But not back then.
And everyone knew it. The guys up there on the top of the steps weren’t just my friends in high school but the other guys from theater, who knew me well enough to know I was full of shit. Talented? Sure. Smart? Maybe. But without a doubt completely full of shit. They turned on me like a crown of young men will and very quickly had me saying things like, “Yeah, I’ve started a novel at home. I just haven’t shown it to anyone, yet.”
Nestor, a big guy who could be your best friend or most vicious adversary depending on lunch or which was the wind blew, suggested he’d really like to see that book. Yeah, Ken, why don’t you bring that book to school and we’ll let you know how good it is…
My stride was calm and confident as I walked home that afternoon, all the while wishing to run because I knew I hadn’t started a novel. In fact, I’d never written a thing in my life.
Oh sure, there were those articles and goofy comedy bits I did for the school newspaper way back in junior high. (This was before My Side, the column I had in high school and so on.) But that would hardly count. No, I had to come up with the beginnings of a novel or fess up to being full of shit.
So, I went home and wrote the beginning of a novel. I wrote several chapters of a book I’d never finish – but there it was. And it wasn’t bad. And, I thought, I really could do this. Imagine!
Roy Johnson never became a famous writer but odds are he became happy. At least, I hope he is happy wherever he is. If it weren’t for him, I would never have become a writer… and I’ve been trying to prove it ever since.
This memory popped back into my head the other day, as I put the last lines down for a new play. That makes six full-length plays I finished this year. Six. Wow. And a sudden, strange inclination had me counting all the books and plays I’d written.
One by one, I counted off the books:
My Side
This Land is My Land
Revelations
A Hex Upon Rynia
The Sons of Rynia: A Rynia trilogy whose books I never got around to naming
Vampire Society
A Grand Canyon
No More Blue Roses
With Eyes to See
Wormfood
Climbing Maya
Love of Your Life
Daughter of a One-Armed Man
Last Ditch
Sixteen. Sixteen books.
One by one, I counted off the plays:
Everything Changes
Atheists
Whatever Happened To Me?
After You Fall
Murielle’s Big Date
Meaning.
Murder, Zombies, the Devil… and stuff…
Sometimes We Find Our Way
Diamonds to Go
The Death of Ethics, etc.
Friends, First
Happily After Ever
Twelve. Twelve plays.
That makes 28 full-length books and plays. This doesn’t include the short plays or short stories or poems or essays or (god forbid) blog entries…
And then I did a bit more math… and I realized that for every year after Roy Johnson and that first moment when I boasted that I could write, I’ve completed writing one book or one play. One a year since the age of 16… still trying to prove myself.
And another memory pops into my head. Ms. Von’s English class… a girl named Michelle asked, “Ms. Von, do you think Ken will ever make it as a writer?” Ms. Von tilted her glance over at me. “If he remains prolific, he will.”
If he remains prolific.
Well, a book or a play each year for 28 years… that’s gotta count, right?
And I thought of this… and I laid down the opening of a new book. This one’s called The Wrong Magic and it’s about how we rely on magic in our lives, in our relationships, and how unreliable it really is… Of course, that’s not all. I’ll tell you more later…
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
What every writer must do…
So, I’m working on this new play: Happily After Ever. This will be my sixth play this year and a damned good reason to quit for a while. I’m exhausted in a very real sense.
Strangely, though, what has happened possibly as a result of being so prolific is that I’ve stumbled onto one of the presumptions of theater and found a way to tear a hole right through it. The resulting work is better than anything I’ve seen myself produce mostly due to scale alone. It’s not just a “bigger is better” thing; it’s one of those times when you set the bar so high you don’t think you can clear it.
Which brings an important point to mind.
It may be this way for any artist but, surely, it applies to writers. When you’re producing your best work, when you look at it and think “Did I really do that?” you’re in a pickle because until you finish whatever project you’re on you are forced to continue at that level. Mediocre writing provides shelter for the lazy; you never have to work too hard to keep that up. But who wants mediocre? Your whole aim as an artist is to reach those impossible heights!
So, it becomes exhausting and exhilarating at the same time. This is why you became an artist, for this very reason. It’s the same feeling an athlete experiences, but instead of pushing your body to an extreme you never thought you’d reach you’re getting there with your mind, with your heart, with your spirit.
Then, when you finish, you realize the odds of getting there again are pretty minute. I know, I’m thinking about that right about now, thinking, “How on earth did I do this and how can I do it again?” I have to stop asking that question, though, and experience the moment so I can remember it later. Because that day will come when I won’t be able to lay down three words that make sense and I’ll wonder, “Why did I think I could do this?” And this will be why.
It’s important to realize why you commit your life to something. Just like with any romance, it keeps the love alive.
Strangely, though, what has happened possibly as a result of being so prolific is that I’ve stumbled onto one of the presumptions of theater and found a way to tear a hole right through it. The resulting work is better than anything I’ve seen myself produce mostly due to scale alone. It’s not just a “bigger is better” thing; it’s one of those times when you set the bar so high you don’t think you can clear it.
Which brings an important point to mind.
It may be this way for any artist but, surely, it applies to writers. When you’re producing your best work, when you look at it and think “Did I really do that?” you’re in a pickle because until you finish whatever project you’re on you are forced to continue at that level. Mediocre writing provides shelter for the lazy; you never have to work too hard to keep that up. But who wants mediocre? Your whole aim as an artist is to reach those impossible heights!
So, it becomes exhausting and exhilarating at the same time. This is why you became an artist, for this very reason. It’s the same feeling an athlete experiences, but instead of pushing your body to an extreme you never thought you’d reach you’re getting there with your mind, with your heart, with your spirit.
Then, when you finish, you realize the odds of getting there again are pretty minute. I know, I’m thinking about that right about now, thinking, “How on earth did I do this and how can I do it again?” I have to stop asking that question, though, and experience the moment so I can remember it later. Because that day will come when I won’t be able to lay down three words that make sense and I’ll wonder, “Why did I think I could do this?” And this will be why.
It’s important to realize why you commit your life to something. Just like with any romance, it keeps the love alive.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
That moment I shouldn’t enjoy but do anyway…
A year or so ago, Vicky and I sat in an OCPA meeting just after the reading of my (then) new play, Meaning. and listened to the feedback from the small audience that was there. One person groused, “You can’t write plays about the meaning of life. You just can’t do it!” Thought this probably should have worried me, I felt the edge of my mouth raise up just a touch… I liked that.
I’ve been so busy writing this year; it’s really been the year of “Ken La Salle: Playwright”. I’ve finished:
Sometimes We Find Our Way
Murder, Zombies, The Devil… and stuff
Diamonds To Go
The Death of Ethics, The Demise of Morality, and the day we all dropped dead
Friends, First
And those are just the full-length, 90 minutes or so, plays. A list with all the shorts would be much longer. I think I’ve been writing my ass off, mostly, as justification in a way. After all, being out of work, it’s nice to say I’ve actually done something with my time. I could say I’ve been applying for jobs but with so few out there that still leaves many hours in the day.
Now, I’m ready to start my sixth play of the year, which I’m calling Happily After Ever, and my friend Stephanie gives me familiar “You can’t do that”. And I smile a bit. I think I’m most pleased (one is tempted to use the word “happiest” but this is me we’re talking about) when I’m doing something people tell me can’t be done or shouldn’t be done. Without going into details, she’s right, of course. The idea for the new play is fraught with complications and things that might kill an ordinary audience… but if I have faith in myself and in my writing, that shouldn’t be a concern.
And I find that equally amusing as I sit here late at night typing this out: me having faith in my writing. With nearly 20 novels and over a dozen plays but not a single sale to my credit, you’d think that’s the last thing I’d have. But then, I think of the staged readings I’ve had and the times when people have heard my plays at a table read and the generous feedback from those who have read my books… I’m not so stupid that I can’t tell rotten luck from rotten writing.
And I guess that as long as I’m told I can’t do something or I shouldn’t do it, as long as the very idea of what I want to write gets a reaction, it’s a far, far better thing than putting people to sleep.
As long as I can prove them wrong, at least…
I’ve been so busy writing this year; it’s really been the year of “Ken La Salle: Playwright”. I’ve finished:
Sometimes We Find Our Way
Murder, Zombies, The Devil… and stuff
Diamonds To Go
The Death of Ethics, The Demise of Morality, and the day we all dropped dead
Friends, First
And those are just the full-length, 90 minutes or so, plays. A list with all the shorts would be much longer. I think I’ve been writing my ass off, mostly, as justification in a way. After all, being out of work, it’s nice to say I’ve actually done something with my time. I could say I’ve been applying for jobs but with so few out there that still leaves many hours in the day.
Now, I’m ready to start my sixth play of the year, which I’m calling Happily After Ever, and my friend Stephanie gives me familiar “You can’t do that”. And I smile a bit. I think I’m most pleased (one is tempted to use the word “happiest” but this is me we’re talking about) when I’m doing something people tell me can’t be done or shouldn’t be done. Without going into details, she’s right, of course. The idea for the new play is fraught with complications and things that might kill an ordinary audience… but if I have faith in myself and in my writing, that shouldn’t be a concern.
And I find that equally amusing as I sit here late at night typing this out: me having faith in my writing. With nearly 20 novels and over a dozen plays but not a single sale to my credit, you’d think that’s the last thing I’d have. But then, I think of the staged readings I’ve had and the times when people have heard my plays at a table read and the generous feedback from those who have read my books… I’m not so stupid that I can’t tell rotten luck from rotten writing.
And I guess that as long as I’m told I can’t do something or I shouldn’t do it, as long as the very idea of what I want to write gets a reaction, it’s a far, far better thing than putting people to sleep.
As long as I can prove them wrong, at least…
Friday, December 04, 2009
Rope burns…
Just a tip to the perverts out there: No, that’s not what this will be about. Get your hands where I can see them and we’ll continue…
Vicky and I have started walking the dogs together in the morning before she goes to work. Sometimes, we’ll just go around the block. Then, there are times when we’ll walk down to the park and let the dogs get some exercise in.
Herein lies my mistake. About a week ago, Vicky and I were out on a particularly warm morning. It was so warm, in fact, that I was wearing shorts. This is an important point and one I should have considered. As we were walking through the park, Shipoopi (our little nuclear energy dog) darted around me and then darted up again so that her lead was draped across my calves…
… and then she pulled…
… and the lead pulled across my calves very quickly, leaving twin rope burns across both calves… and leaving me screaming like a little girl…
Vicky asked, “What happened?” And when I told her, her response was something along the line of “Pansie…”
The next day, the burns began to scab over. A day or so later, Vicky saw the backs of my calves and made a disgusted sound. “Wow. Those look really painful.”
And they were.
I have a great respect for those who can work with ropes and not get rope burn now that I know what it is. I also have a great respect for ropes and plan to never walk my dogs without long pants again, lest we replay that little dittie. Here it is, about a week later, and I can’t scratch them because of the scabs. They’re like two long crevices across my calves… ouch…
Let’s all try to learn from my mistake, shall we?
Vicky and I have started walking the dogs together in the morning before she goes to work. Sometimes, we’ll just go around the block. Then, there are times when we’ll walk down to the park and let the dogs get some exercise in.
Herein lies my mistake. About a week ago, Vicky and I were out on a particularly warm morning. It was so warm, in fact, that I was wearing shorts. This is an important point and one I should have considered. As we were walking through the park, Shipoopi (our little nuclear energy dog) darted around me and then darted up again so that her lead was draped across my calves…
… and then she pulled…
… and the lead pulled across my calves very quickly, leaving twin rope burns across both calves… and leaving me screaming like a little girl…
Vicky asked, “What happened?” And when I told her, her response was something along the line of “Pansie…”
The next day, the burns began to scab over. A day or so later, Vicky saw the backs of my calves and made a disgusted sound. “Wow. Those look really painful.”
And they were.
I have a great respect for those who can work with ropes and not get rope burn now that I know what it is. I also have a great respect for ropes and plan to never walk my dogs without long pants again, lest we replay that little dittie. Here it is, about a week later, and I can’t scratch them because of the scabs. They’re like two long crevices across my calves… ouch…
Let’s all try to learn from my mistake, shall we?
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