365 Photo Project - Day 189

Taken: July 8, 2010, approx. 11 p.m.
Location: Healdsburg, Ca.

I've been seeing this image in my sleep these days. Tap, tap, tap.

365 Photo Project - Day 107

Taken: April 17, 2010, noon
Location: Healdsburg, Ca.

Missed a day because I'm writing nonstop. Was hoping to be done this weekend but alas, not quite. But progress has been made and I'm more than halfway home. It feels good to force myself into a writing schedule. My goal now is to keep on trucking. I'm beginning to think this is my year.  Time will tell but as tired as I am right now, I'm feeling like it's the good type of fatigue. The kind that means something real is getting done.

I shot precious little this weekend. I even considered subbing in an old shot for the next day's photo (which is today's photo as I write this). But in the end, I got in a shot just before midnight -- a little homage shot actually (you'll see it soon enough). I guess I'm really committed to seeing this thing through, to taking at least one shot a day. Or maybe I should be committed. Whatever.

I'll be writing more as the week progresses. I promise.

I can't get through the day without my coffee. I'm addicted. I like good coffee, too. No French roast for this girl. I'm all about the water temperature and my silver Bodum bullet-shaped french press. Just the right amount of steeping. Yeah, I'm way into my coffee. Our best local coffee place is The Flying Goat, or The Goat as we locals refer to it. I love the kids over there -- I know some of them even read my blog (hey Jacob) -- and even though I make my coffee myself every day, I love stopping by, grabbing a table and gabbing with whoever walks in. And I'm sort of addicted to their Chai Lattes. But you know, we don't even have to go there.

I mainlined so much coffee this weekend that when I slipped into bed Sunday morning at 5:30 a.m. after being up since 10:30 am Saturday, I couldn't fall asleep. Hell,  I couldn't sit still. I'm getting too old for this shit I tell you.

I shot these mugs at the Goat on Saturday when I went by to have my Thermos filled up for my all-nighter. Used my K100D, the internal flash and edited it in Photoshop.

365 Photo Project - Day 97

Taken: April 7, 2010, 10 p.m.
Location: Healdsburg, Ca

Instead of boring you with my morbid musings today, I thought I'd try something a little different. As many of you know, I'm a published novelist although I have not had a book out in more than a decade. The reasons for this are varied, mildly complicated and more than a little depressing. It's not that I haven't been writing -- I write all the time, almost every day, pages and pages -- it's just that I haven't finished a novel worth publishing. That's about to change.

In the next few weeks, I'll be putting the final touches on a new book. It's called "Blood Matters." It's not a Zen Moses book (she is my detective character) but a wholly new character, and it's a lot more serious and (I hope) deeper and richer. I'm not knocking my Zen books -- I love 'em -- but I was ready for something new and I'm not always the kind of writer that gets to The End the easy way.

I'm as proud of this new work as anything I've ever done. Some of you have read excerpts that I've posted here and on Facebook. I don't think I've ever posted these particular pages so it'll be something new for everybody I hope.

Without further introduction, then, here's an excerpt from "Blood Matters," the novel. Please note that this excerpt and everything else I write on this blog is protected by copyright. That means if you wanna use it anywhere and for any reason you need my permission. Period. Anyway, I hope you enjoy the read and please excuse any typos -- the line-edit is still a few weeks away.

Downtown Los Angeles used to be a wasteland on nights and weekends. During the day, the streets teem with investment bankers, secretaries and lawyers who navigate the sidewalks against the push of the homeless, tourists and the bike messengers who play chicken with cell-phone chatting drivers looking for the oasis of a parking spot.

But like cockroaches when the lights go on, at closing time they scatter to points in all directions – intent on sitting in the infuriatingly slow-crawling traffic jams in order to get as far away from the skyscrapers as possible.

Slowly, residential buildings are rising up along side those glistening corporate towers and more and more people are moving into loft-style apartments hoping that the Staples Center and the stunning Disney Hall concert building will lure city dwellers into the actual heart of the city.

They’re still waiting. A few short blocks from some of the newest lofts lie a series of streets even a tough guy would avoid in the daylight. On this side of downtown, cheap motels stand side-by-side to empty needle-strewn lots and half-boarded up liquor stores, warehouses next to more warehouses, where people sleep in every doorway and there isn’t anybody around to tell them to take it somewhere else.

Perc had parked his car across from the Beacon Hotel, kept the engine on and the air turned up high. He was listening to a Public Radio Show called “Fresh Air.”

The host was a woman named Terry Gross. Perc had a thing for her. Well, he had a thing for her voice. It soothed him. It made him feel connected to the world. Half the time he didn’t pay attention to what she said, it was just the way she said it that he liked.

Today she was talking to some washed up rock singer who was starring in his own reality show, an arrogant prick with a deep voice who used big words to make himself sound intelligent. Perc was sure it was a cover and he was dumb as shit. People didn’t realize how much you could tell about them just by listening to them talk. Perc had always been able to break people down in the interrogation room. His secret was to listen. The longer you listened, the more you learned and the easier it was to find an opening.

This rocker was talking like he was smarter than everybody but Perc knew better. He was proud of Terry when she called him on it. It made his fucking day.

Perc couldn’t stand it any longer. He was either going to cross the street and go upstairs to see if his father was still breathing or he was gonna put the damn car in gear and drive somewhere and get hammered.

Frank’s words from last night echoed in his head. There was truth in them, as usual. Frank had an annoying way of getting to the center of things. Even when he pissed Perc off, he had to admit when he had a point. And he was right about Perc seeing his old man. It was now or never. And never, Perc considered, was a fucking long ass time.

He cut the car’s engine and opened the door to the oppressive whoosh of hot air. It was Sunday. The street was quiet, save for a couple of derelicts sharing a brown-bagged bottle on a bus bench, an ad for cognac painted behind them. They eyed Perc as he jaywalked across the street.

He stopped in front of the Beacon, looking up at the side of the building. The brick façade, painted hundreds of times, had faded to a warm brown color and a fine, reddish powder lined the street at the bottom edge of the building, as if it was disintegrating right there in front of him.

One of the derelicts spit on the ground, showing a mouth of missing teeth.

“Who you gonna hassle up in there, po-po,” he said. “Even God takes himself a day off.”

“I’m not a cop,” Perc said.

“If’n you say so,” the man said and took a swig from his bottle, laughing at him. “If’n you say so.”

Perc shook his head. A good cop knows a troublemaker from a mile away. Guess it figures it works the other way around too. He waved at the two drunks and went inside the Beacon.

The elevator was working but he couldn’t get it to stop on the seventh floor. He had to pass it twice before he gave up, getting out one floor below and walking up.

The stairwell was dark but empty except for a litter of used needles and condoms and crushed cans of malt liquor. Guess the local junkies had somewhere else to be on Sunday. The hallway heavy with stale air and reminded him of his bad dream, the one he’d been having over and over again for years. The shrink he saw at the department said with work he’d be able to make sense of what it meant. The shrink said a lot of things, most of which Perc thought was common sense or common bullshit. Half the time he changed his mind over what was what.

The walls were cheap plaster white or brown that had gone gray and the carpet on the floor was blotched with stains of unknown origin. The dominant smells were a gag-inducing mixture of piss, sweat and sex.

He found 709 at the end of the hallway, next to a window that was propped open with a Budweiser bottle. It was quieter than he expected but through the thin walls he could pick up sounds inside, a t.v. squawking some bible thumper’s sermon, a couple arguing and other noises he figured were best kept a mystery.

His father left the L.A.P.D. a few years before Perc signed up, which suited him just fine. He wore the uniform his entire career and spent the last decade as a desk sergeant in Rampart. He was old school, which isn’t a compliment from Perc’s point of view.

He was a hard ass and a drunk who, even years after Daryl Gates had slinked away as one of the bad guys, believed problems were solved in windowless backrooms with a billy-club and an open fist. Perc had heard ugly rumors about Sergeant Leo Baldwin, even that he’d sent a few lowlifes to an early grave, but he suspected a lot of it was just talk. His father was one of those men who traded in violence, but only up to a point and that point being to show he was tougher than the next guy. Most of the time, a guy like that only had to prove himself once. After that, you lived on your rep as long as you could.

Perc knew Leo’s secret better than anyone – pick on the weakest person in the room and do it in a way that makes the other guys think twice about what you might do to them.

Perc understood this about his father from a very young age and when he was eleven put his theory into practice. The balance of power shifted that day between father and son and it was the last time Leo had laid a hand on his son in violence.

Still, rumors aside, as far as he’d ever heard, his father had only fired his weapon in the line of duty one or two times, and that was years ago when he was just another green behind the ears beat cop.

What life he had led in the years since his retirement were mostly a mystery to Perc, although occasionally on those rare times he would drive up the coast to visit his mom long after she’d finally left Leo, she would mention him as if they had spoken recently. She never gave him specifics but then he never asked for any either.

He was standing in front of Room 709, staring at the peeling brown paint and the old-fashioned key lock like it was a oracle that would reveal the secret of life to him. It was maybe five minutes before he finally tapped on the door. Nobody answered. He knocked louder.

Then he tried the door. It was locked. He felt a presence behind him and turned to see a waif-thin transvestite who seemed to appear out of nowhere.

“He’s in repose,” the voice said.

She was puffing delicately on a Virginia Slims with lips that were painted the color of blood. He put his hand against the wall to steady himself against the rising tide in his stomach.

The transvestite held the cigarette between her lips and in two easy steps was beside him, one hand on his shoulder, the other on his arm.

“You okay, honey?”

Perc didn’t move even though he didn’t want her to touch him. He kept his eyes closed until the moment passed. When he opened them, and got his bearings, he took a step back. He noticed with embarrassment how she gracefully gave him space without acknowledging his obvious slight.

Instead, with the cigarette between two fingers, she smoothed the folds of her bright green house dress, which she’d buttoned all the way to her neck. She wore a red and yellow flowered scarf in her hair. Her skin was a light coffee color, smooth and even like a child’s but age lines scored her mouth and eyes.

A favorite teacher once told him that he didn’t have to look for humanity because it would find you when you least expected it. It was something he tried to hold on to but his years on this earth had beaten him to a pulp and he long ago stopped expecting it at all.

Yet, here was this woman or man or whatever proving his teacher’s theory without effort or ulterior motives. Still, all Perc could think was that he didn’t deserve it. That’s how fucked up he was.

“You here to see the Sergeant?” Her voice had the sing-song cadence of the deep South and she played it for all it was worth. She said sergeant like it had three syllables.

Perc hadn’t heard his father called that in years.

“If he’s sleeping, I could come back later.”

“Na-uh, honey,” she said, producing a set of keys. “He don’t get many visitors. From the looks of you, I think you’s the one he’s been waiting for.”

“I am?”

“You the prodigal son, ain’t ya?” She said prodigal prod-di-gi-cal and it sounded like a whole different word.

She jangled the keys for him to see. “I’m kind of his nursemaid, I guess.”

Perc was amused and surprised by this. He watched her unlock the door and push it open. She held it for him, the stringy muscles on her arms popping out with definition. She saw him appraising them.

“Ran track at Santa Monica College back in the day,” she said and winked at him. “Me and Carl Lewis were tight, but not like you mean.”

She giggled, putting her hand to her breast. “Sorry, honey. I tend to go babble. Go on inside. I won’t bother y’all.”

Perc hesitated.

“He caint bite you no more,” she said, allowing herself a generous smile as if she knew all his secrets. “Go on now.”

He stepped inside the room. She closed the door behind him.

He thought he smelled death in his apartment but he realized standing there in that dark, seedy one-window room that he had no idea what the smell of death was until this very moment.

He crossed the room in two steps, passing the shadow of a human strewn out on the bed, and ducked into the door-less bathroom so he could vomit in the sink. He had to hold himself up for several minutes before he was able to step back into the room again.

He stood over the figure of his father feeling far more pity than anything else, but also seeing his future in the dark, soulless eyes of the person he hated more than anyone else in the whole world.

He was thinner than he’d ever seen him but other than that he wasn’t the small, shrunken old man Perc imagined when Frank told him he was dying. The only indication of whatever was killing him was the constant hum of the breathing apparatus shoved into his nose, and the bag of shit and piss on the bed next to him.

His father was lying on his back, his eyes closed, his mouth open slightly. His chest heaving an irregular beat, so slight, Perc was sure it would stop at any moment.

“Well what the fuck,” Perc said out loud.

His father’s eyes opened suddenly, opening wider in recognition of Perc. His lips moved but Perc couldn’t make out the words. He stepped closer. On the side table was a beat up copy of the bible, a pack of Marlboros and the lighter his father had carried around with him as long as he’d ever known him. It was silver-plated and engraved with the image of St. Jude, the Patron Saint of Policeman. And, Perc remembered, lost causes.

“Perc,” his father said. “Well, fuck me.”

“I just wanted to see you one last time, make sure it was true what Frank said.”

“I’m a dead man,” he said. “Lung cancer. What’s really fucked up is I still want a smoke.”

Perc was surprised at how strong his father’s voice sounded though it was accented by the scratchiness from a lifetime of smoking cigarettes. Without warning, he launched into a coughing fit that was so violent Perc wasn’t sure he’d survive it. It stopped as suddenly as it had began and for a moment Perc thought he was dead.

Then he opened his eyes again, motioning for Perc to come closer.

“Good-bye, Leo,” he said but his father started to lift himself off the bed. His once-powerful arms had gone soft, too weak to support his frail frame. Perc wanted to dismiss the pity he felt but he couldn’t do it.

His father accidentally dislodged the breathing tube from his nose and he started to gag immediately, the color drained from his face and in his lips started to turn blue. Perc watched him for what seemed like forever, not sure he had the strength or the inclination to help him. But in the end, Perc had no choice. He guessed he wasn’t his father’s son after all.

He went over to the bed and put the tube back in. It was a good minute before his father got his breath back.

“You wanted to let me die,” he said. “I could see it in your eyes.”

Perc just stared at him. “You got something to say, say it.”

“You’re a fucking pussy,” his father said. “You always were.”

“I kicked your ass pretty good,” Perc said. “Maybe you forgot that.”

His father coughed again. “Yeah, yeah, I’m a shitheel. Newsfuckingflash. I don’t deny I was a lousy father.”

“You don’t deserve the title,” Perc couldn’t stand to hear any apologies. He wasn’t ready for it. “I don’t need to hear your excuses.”

“Nobody’s perfect, sonny boy, least of all you. I mean a cop who’s scared of the sight of blood. Jesus,” he coughed again and screwed his face up in pain.

“I ain’t apologizing for shit. My maker will take care of that,” his father said. “I’m just trying to square things before I bite the big one.”

“Well, I’m not going to give you the satisfaction,” Perc said. “I don’t owe you a thing.”

He started to rise when his father grabbed his arm. His hand was cold like a corpse but his grip was solid.

“You have a brother,” he said.

Perc looked back at him.

“Got your attention you little fuck,” he smiled. “Truthfully, he’s only your half brother.”

“It’s no secret you fucked around,” Perc said. “Guess having a kid would follow.”

“Yeah, well this was different. This kid was special. He was going to make me a better man. Fucking crazy talk, right? I mean coming from me, but it’s the God’s honest truth.”

“Good for you,” Perc said. He felt like he’d been kicked in the head.

“Well, shit I didn’t mean it that way. Christ. You take everything so damn personal,” he said. “I wasn’t ready for you, that’s all. Ain’t nothing more complicated than that.

“You turned out all right for the most part, didn’t ya? Maybe you were better off the way things worked out.”

“Wow. Why didn’t I think of that?”

The old man tried to reach for his smokes. Perc absently grabbed the pack and started to pull one out. Why the fuck not?

“Just the lighter,” he said. “I just want the lighter.”

Perc picked it up. He had coveted it for as long as he could remember, his earliest memories of his father pulling it out of his shirt pocket. The silver was tarnished and the engraving faded, but it was still beautiful and it reflected sunlight like a jewel. Perc rubbed his thumb along the face of St. Jude. He had never believed in things like religion and the saints but he had always attributed a magic to his father’s lighter that he couldn’t explain. The fancy of little boys, he supposed.

He held the lighter up but his father waved at him with his free hand.

“I want you to have it,” he said, and he coughed again, this time for a long time. The door opened behind him and the transvestite popped her head.

“Y’all right in here?”

His father waved at her, trying to get his breath back. “We’re fine, Sugar,” he said through coughs.

She clicked her teeth and shook her head before closing the door again. After she left, the room seemed to close in around Perc. He wanted to open the window.

He held the lighter in his hand, turning it around and feeling it’s heft. What was he supposed to feel now?

“So how come you’re not giving this to your special son?”

“It ain’t like it’s free,” he said. “I need a favor.”

“Here we go.”

“Ah, Jesus,” he said. “It’s not like I put you out in the street. Get over it.”

Perc started to get up again, but his father’s grip was surprisingly sturdy.

“This kid. Your little half brother disappeared in 1986.”

“Probably to get away from his father.”

“It wasn’t like that, dammit,” more coughing. “He was fucking abducted. Nobody ever found out what happened to him. Been looking for him ever since.”

“Why are you telling me this now?”

“Cause I’m dead,” he said. “Cause I promised myself I’d find him. Cause you’re the only person left who got any reason to want to know what happened.”

“You want me to take up a 20-year-old missing persons case to ease your conscience? Half the force thinks you’re some kind of hero. Why don’t you ask one of your old pals.”

“It ain’t about me anymore. You ever do find out what happened, be too late for me. I’ll be pushing up daisies,” he said. “I can’t die without passing the torch so to speak. And you, like or not, are my flesh and blood. I got nobody else to do any passing to. Don’t do it for me. Do it for the kid. He don’t have an end to his story. Everybody deserves that.”

Perc shook his head and placed the lighter on his father’s chest.

“He’s probably dead, Leo,” he said.

His father launched into another coughing fit, this one impossibly worse than the last. Perc pried his father’s hand off his arm. Then he saw it – a trickle of blood drip out of the corner of his mouth.

Perc started to feel the same old sensation wash over him – the flush, the nausea, the dizziness. He closed his eyes, trying to gain control. When he opened them again, his father was quiet again. When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper. The spittle of blood sat on his chin like a bad omen.

“I know he’s out there,” he said. “He’s alive.”

Another coughing fit. Perc turned away, afraid of the blood, afraid he’d pass out. His father gripped his arm again, so tight he was sure he’d break the skin.

“You have to find him,” he said “Promise you’ll look for him.”

Perc was shaking, not sure if it was the blood or the familiar rage building up inside him, but he could barely speak. He wanted to get up. He wanted to run away from this man, this room, this place, this fucking city. He wanted to run away and never come back.

His father coughed again, this time hacking up a gob of blood onto the sheets, barely missing Perc. He felt sick again. He turned his head away, trying to keep the bile from climbing out of his stomach.

But the ugly moment passed unexpectedly and instead, he felt his father’s grip on his forearm. Somehow it steadied his nerves.

“Promise me,” his father said, his voice almost inaudible.

Perc felt something strange inside, a feeling of pity of longing, of loss. He couldn’t explain it, couldn’t make sense of it at that moment and maybe he never would, but whatever it was, made him do a thing he thought impossible.

“Sure. I promise,” he said.

His father tried to speak again but his breathing was coming in shorter and shorter gasps and Perc could hear the telltale gurgle of his lungs filling up with fluid. He watched his father take his last uneven breaths in that seedy hotel room with the oppressive L.A. sun burning a hole in a spot on the mangy carpet.

Even after his eyes rolled back in his head, Perc could feel his father’s cold grip on his arm, like he was still fighting off his demons even after he had left this world for good.

365 Photo Project - Day 90

Taken: March 31, 2010, 9:20 p.m.
Location: Healdsburg, Ca.

Here's what I thought today: how do you show sorrow in a photograph. This is the best I could do.

Ah, fuck. I'm so sad.

What is a person supposed to say on days like this?

Today happens to be a close friend's birthday. She's the same friend who is mourning the death of her cat and of course, I planned on calling her today. But when I woke up this morning, there were a half dozen messages on my iPhone (the one I don't sleep with anymore) -- two of them from my friend telling me the most awful news, that late last night we lost a dear and good and far too young friend of ours. That our friend was dead. It was sudden, as unexpected as a tornado down Sunset Blvd.

There is nothing that can prepare you for this kind of news and after a day of staring blankly into space and crying my eyes out, of writing about him, about nothing, of commiserating with friends and just trying to make sense out of one damned thing, I still don't know how I feel, exactly. Except sad. An overwhelming, aching, blinding sorrow.

Our friend, David, wasn't just any friend, he was a light in the universe kind of person, who touched more people than he'll ever know, who made the world a much more interesting place.

I am so sad that the sound of the cursed rain pounding outside is welcoming. I felt like running out the door with no shoes on, and standing in the middle of it, letting the cascades of water sink in, soaking into my skin, all the way to my bones, until I don't give a shit anymore.

It's like having parts of your heart removed. Literally. Like the doctors came to your house overnight and surgically cut out a whole section. What's left has to beat harder and faster just to keep up, making your breathing shorter, like half hiccups, like you've been holding your breath underwater for a week, like catching it and breathing out is the same damn thing.

I realize there's never a time more suited for selfishness than when someone you love dies. Let the pity party begin. I feel bad, that's for sure, but I haven't yet been able to shake the feeling of shock, of bewilderment. Is it really real?  This is what happens when you hear about the death of a friend who just a couple days ago you were trading emails with, who was in a really good place (after not being in a very good one for a time) who was in many ways larger-than-life and who was only 48.

Dammit.

All I can say is that if it's true that nature abhors a vacuum, then we all better just duck for cover. Because there's a big freaking black hole in the universe today.

I think I'm going to go get drunk.

365 Photo Project - Day 81

Taken: March 22, 2010, 11:30 p.m.

Location: Healdsburg, Ca.

Writers write. Obviously. But I don't just mean putting pencil to paper, hands to keyboard -- it's not always about filling a blank page. I know it's not for me. I'm always thinking about writing. Always. It remains the best and worst thing about the way my brain works. In it, I'm always writing, creating, thinking about writing or creating, making up words and characters, dreaming up plots, people, places, words, ideas, and on and on. I couldn't shut it off even if I wanted to.

A favorite cousin once impressed upon me to never go anywhere without something to read. He's right; you never know when you're going to get stuck somewhere -- in a line, waiting for a meeting, or a meal, or at a doctor's office -- only to discover the only reading materials is a Readers' Digest from 1980 or a pamphlet about your colon. PDAs are one thing but even I get sick of staring at my iPhone screen 24 hours a day.

That's why I always have something on hand to read (usually a book).  And because I'm a writer, I also take a notebook with me everywhere (and hopefully a pen too). If you know a writer personally, you may know we can be particular about our writing supplies. (I fear this comes from too much time spent alone in dark rooms with only our own thoughts to keep us company.)  My loyalties lie with micr-fine point uniball pens and Moleskine notebooks.

My current favorite its the reporters' notebook which opens from the bottom up -- though the one pictured above is a small version of the classic. I admit to being romanced by the legendary history of Moleskines. The originals were said to be favored by Hemingway and Picasso among others. One has to be romanced by a blank notebook that costs a ridiculous $12-15 each (because it sure ain't gonna help you write or paint like those guys).

Ah, but yet could there be something more? 

I believe it. To hold a Moleskine in your hand is to understand the love. They have a perfect weight, are sturdy and practical (the ribbon bookmark and elastic band are genius) and yes, they inspire thoughts of mid-20th century Paris and New York, Spain and Venice, of the Algonquin, El Floridita and the terrace of Deux Magots of F. Scott Fitzgerald and Dorothy Parker, of Graham Greene. Of smokes and extra dry martini's, scotch neat and the clickity clack, whiz of Underwoods. Like it's part of the writer's uniform. Romance indeed. (And no, the Moleskine people are not paying me to say this. If they were, though, I'd ask for more notebooks.)

I write in them all the time, all sorts of things from notes and outlines to pages and chapters of my novels to my non-artistic scribblings. They are filled also with notes to myself about character names, songs and movie titles, musings, mini-diary entries and phone numbers, addresses and favorite restaurants.  I own dozens of them. They are scattered all about my life, in my office, my car, under my bed, on bookshelves, in boxes, big ones and small, hard cover and soft. Like in the image above, they are all filled with the writing I do when I'm not really writing (that nonsense above was a grain of an idea for a movie I wrote years ago). And though my not-so-legible personal shorthand code may or may not make sense later, even to me, they are necessary to my crazy creative process. They are, literally and literarily, the seeds I scatter on the ground as I walk through my own dark forests, so I can find my way back home again.

365 Photo Project - Day 72

Taken: March 13, 2010, approx. 5:45 p.m.
Location: Healdsburg, CA

I took a spill today. Right down my front stairs landing hard on our gravel and dirt driveway.  Skinned my right knee something awful, scraped some skin off the palm of my right hand and nearly imbedded my elbow in my chest, pretty much knocking the wind right out of me. I'm happy to say I'll live and the only witnesses were my two pugs. Lucky for me, they ain't talking.

Unless you're still a kid, falling down is one of those things that reminds you of getting old. Hard to keep those thoughts of brittle bones and wobbly knees out of your head. Hard not to consider what happens to us all eventually, the slow and steady breakdown of your body from a lifetime of use. I guess it's always good to have these thoughts when you're young enough to do something about it. But no matter how well you treat your body, it's hard not to imagine the helplessness and wonder if anybody really goes gently into that deep, dark night.

Been thinking a lot about the end recently. In my new novel, there's an important scene where somebody dies that happens really early in the narrative. It was one of the first things I wrote when I started this book a couple years ago but I find myself returning to it a lot. Not to make major changes, but just to check its authenticity. Which is kind of funny if you think about it. I mean I've never been in a room when somebody died -- my writing about it is based on stuff I've read, other peoples' experiences and a lot of imagination.

Of course, the "authenticity" isn't in whether the death scene is real, it's the emotions of the characters who experience the death that has to resonate. That's the thing about writing well. You can make anything "real" if you get the feeling right.

I've found that aspiring writers get far too hung up on setting scenes and describing the way people feel instead of working to find a way to convey the emotions of their characters. Your audience will know how a character is feeling if you show them through action and dialogue as opposed to telling them outright.

My best days writing are the ones where the characters take flight on their own -- when they tell me something about them I didn't even know, when they're the ones who tell me what they want to do next. I know it sounds crazy, but the better you know your characters, the more likely their actions and feelings, emotions and choices will show themselves to you -- as opposed to you forcing that on them. The word "organic" is overused in talking about writing but it's something every writer should shoot for; the idea that everything your character does and says comes as a natural progression of their actions and behavior. I'm not saying your character's behavior should be obvious or predictable but it should be in keeping with who they are.

Which is not to say you can't throw wrenches every now and then. You can do whatever you want as long as you lay the foundation for it, as long as you make sure your audience can keep up with your line of thinking (there always has to be a there there, even if it takes awhile for them to get it). When you make it work, it's an incredibly experience. I'm not saying it's easy but show me the person who says writing is easy and I'll show you a hack.

That's why I spend so much time thinking about my characters. Who are they? What do they want? Why do we care who they are and what they want? I make lists about them that will never see the light of day. I do it because it informs me who they are -- it tells me what I can do with them, to them and hopefully, how they'll react to whatever it is I throw at them. The better I get to know them, the more likely they'll start talking to me. Let me tell you from experience: those moments are rare and fleeting but they are gifts from the Gods. Every writer knows exactly what I'm talking about.

But you won't get near that place unless you push yourself, push your character and dig deep as you can until you know where the bones are buried. The fun is in the moments you don't expect, the magic comes when you, the creator, the person who supposedly has all the answers, is suddenly given something new and unexpected.

It's kind of like accidentally falling down a flight of stairs. One minute you're blissfully upright and the next you're eating the dirt, trying to find your breath again. The pain is (hopefully) passing but it lingers long enough. A shock to the system, a moment of clarity if you will. Hell, I'm not recommending falling down your stairs as a path to enlightenment. All I'm saying is it's worth tripping up your own view of the world. You never know what you'll discover.  As the man says, though, just be damned careful out there.

This barn is on the road to my house. I shot it with my K100D just around sunset and loved the perfect clear blue sky in the image. It's very lightly edited in Photoshop. Tonight is Daylight Savings Time which means spring's nearly here and summer's right on its heels. Which in turn means the days are getting longer, a photographer's dream.

365 Photo Project - Day 46

Taken: February 15, 2010, approx. 2:15 p.m.
Location: Lambert Bridge, Healdsburg, CA


This isn't the Russian River. It's actually Dry Creek just below Lambert Bridge. I used to cross this bridge every day on the way to and from the place we used to rent. It's a beautiful little spot -- the bridge is a tiny one compared to the two I keep photographing and putting up here. Oh, and don't worry, plenty more of these bridges 'round wine country. I plan on shooting them all by the end of this project. And nom I didn't violate my policy of sticking close to my daily route. The day drew me out. It was a sparkling blue-sky full of sunshine like sprint was here and I just had to take a drive. Decided do my own Healdsburg circle, which is to head down West Dry Creek, cross Lambert Bridge and go back to down via Dry Creek Road. 
As many times as I've passed this bridge, I've never stopped to get out and look at it. For one, there's almost no where to stop. But I found a turn off and walked back onto the bridge. The view was just lovely.


It was peaceful standing on the bridge, which is just wide enough for only one car to pass. And shaky too -- even as I stood there, the whole bridge rattled under my feet as cars bounced over it. Did I mention I'm afraid of heights? Still, I think it was Stephen King who said writers are always writing, even when they're doing something that's not writing. You know, like standing on a lovely little bridge over a fast-flowing creek on a country road snaking through acres of wine vineyards. Standing and staring. And writing.


I found this quote today from James Lee Burke, one of my favorite authors:

"The most difficult test for me as a writer came during the middle of my career, when, after publishing three novels in New York, I went 13 years without a hardback publication. My novel "The Lost Get-Back Boogie" alone received 110 rejections during nine years of submission, supposedly a record in the industry.  

It was during this period I had to relearn the lesson I had learned at 20, when I worked on the offshore oil crew: you write it a day at a time and let God be the measure of its worth; you let the score take care of itself; and most important, you never lose faith in your vision. God might choose fools and people who glow with neurosis for his partners in creation, but he doesn't make mistakes." 

It was the closing paragraph of a piece he wrote for the NY Times back in December 2002 called "Seeking a Vision of Truth, Guided by a Higher Power."  It was, as I recall, part of a series the Times was running at the time called Writers on Writing. (The full text is on his website.)

For me, there just isn't a more authentic, wiser writer working today than Burke, who's oeuvre is a travelogue through the realm of man and God, good and evil and the awful cost of money and power on the people who seek it and those they trample on to get it. There is no work of fiction, for example, that puts Katrina into more searing perspective than "The Tin Roof Blowdown." He is a master of words and allegory and I would sell my soul to be half the writer he is. (If you haven't read any of his novels, get going. Do yourself a favor and start at the beginning.)

What draws me to his writing isn't just how beautiful it is but it's his fearlessness. He lays bare the flaws of his characters, forcing them to live up (and down) to them, making them face the darkness inside their own hearts. Yes, there's good and evil but there's a lot in between, too. I don't imagine there's any bigger truth about being human, that most of us are tempted by the things we can't control or don't understand, by desire and power, money and prestige, by stuff. Even if we don't give into the evil, we have to face the consequences of what wanting it means about who we are. If we can survive, if we really pay attention, we can do better next time. We can try anyway. 

I like how Burke explores the world with the big, timeless questions of humanity. I'm not big on religion as a rule. Which is not to say I don't like religion. I just don't like the way its sold these days like vacuum cleaners. I won't question you're belief in how you were saved by God but if you try to convince me to follow your path, you'll lose me in a nanosecond.  You believe in God or you don't, one religion or another but for me there's only one way to get there, and it's among the most private, personal journeys you'll ever experience. In my perfect world, religion would be like sex - you do it but you don't talk about it.

Whether I believe in God is beside the point. I do believe in leaps of faith, though. I believe the best of life happens when you put your faith in the void and if organized religion helps you get there, by all means don't let me stop you. My "void" is getting to work every day, putting one word in front of the other, constructing sentences, paragraphs, chapters. Trusting in the electrical impulses that run from my brain to my fingertips, hoping they'll occasionally pass through my heart, that they'll make magic. Just like Jim Burke, I have to relearn the lessons and remember to never lose faith in the vision. Let somebody else judge the results.

Taken with my K100D and edited in Photoshop.

Is TV Dead?

I'm not done with my sabbatical but since I write for TV, I thought it was important to share this article on whether network TV is going the way of the 8-track. It's from today's NY Times website, on their Room for Debate blog. 

When I have a break in my writing, I'll come back to comment more about this. 

Break Time

I've returned from what was a long and beautiful trip. Turns out witnessing history is fun -- and stressful as I ended up with a pile of t-shirts and a case of pneumonia.  Still, I wouldn't change the experience for anything.

Alas, fun is over. Like our new Commander in Chief, there is work to be done and not a helluva lot of time to do it in.

So, to my small mini-gaggle of readers, this post is to let you know that I'm going on a sabbatical from my blog so I can concentrate on my day job, which is sitting in front of my computer and writing. Sounds a lot like this,  I know, but slightly less fun.

Football's over. The NBA is a big ol' bore this year and even though pitchers and catchers report in two weeks, there's that stupid World Baseball bullshit to interrupt a good ol' spring of meaningless games. Don't get me started. 

I will try to continue to upload and post some photos and video of the inauguration (and other things) as I get to them but for the most part, this here space will be quiet for at least until the end of February and likely a bit into March. 

The one exception will be a new photo feature beginning on February 17 --  a small thing to at least keep you from forgetting me entirely.

The good news is that my current is sure to fuel some good blogging in the future. Hope y'all are still around when I come back.